THE 


AWAKENING  OF  SPRING 

A    Tragedy  of  Childhood 

FRANK    WEDEKIND 


X- 


GIFT   OF 
leslie    Van  Ness    Denman 


THE    AWAKENING   OF   SPRING 


BOOKS  BY  FRANK  WEDEKIND 
Published  by,  NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  SPRING 

A  Tragedy  of  Childhood 

Net.  $1.25.     By  mail.  SI.  3  5 

SUCH  IS  LIFE.     A  Play  in  Five  Acts 

Net  fl.2S.     By  mail.  J1.34 

RABBI  EZRA  AND  THE  VICTIM. 

Two  Stories 

Net,  35c.      By  mail.  40c. 

THE  GRISLEY  SUITOR.     A  Story 

Net,  35c.      By  mail,  4cc. 


THE 
AWAKENING  OF  SPRING 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  CHILDHOOD 


BY 

FRANK  WEDEKIND 


ENGLISH  VERSION  BY  FRANCIS  J.  ZIEGLER 


Sixth  Ed] 

ition 

^    •>  »  0 

t      * 

■■'      »  .1 
%'    0 

■         -               ,                            '              ^ 

• 

-5        » 

^'1    "^'    >    >      /, 

•  3      0          >     J  ■,  :,    ^      ■, 

%' 

*}     tit    •    JO» 
>     3    >      J    J    J        , 

NICHOLAS 

L. 

BROWN 

NEW  YORK 

MCMXX 

^ 


GIFT  OP 


Copyright,  1910 
BY 

BROWN  BROTHERS 
Copyright^  igi6 

BY 

NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 


A  PROEM  FOR  PRUDES 


^^'HAT  it  is  a  fatal  error  to  bring  np  children,  either 
vir"  boys  or  girls,  in  ignorance  of  their  sexual  nature 
is  the  thesis  of  Frank  Wedekind^s  drama  ^'  Frühlings 
Erwachen."  From  its  title  one  might  suppose  it  a 
peaceful  little  idyl  of  the  youth  of  the  year.  ISTo  idea 
could  be  more  mistaken.  It  is  a  tragedy  of  frightful 
import,  and  its  action  is  concerned  with  the  develop- 
ment of  natural  instincts  in  the  adolescent  of  both 
sexes. 

The  playwright  has  attacked  his  theme  with  European 
frankness;  but  of  plot,  in  the  usual  acceptance  of  the 
term,  there  is  little.  Instead  of  the  coherent  drama  of 
conventional  type,  Wedekind  has  given  us  a  series  of 
loosely  connected  scenes  illuminative  of  character — 
scenes  which  surely  have  profound  significance  for  all 
occupied  in  the  training  of  the  young.  He  sets  before 
•Qs  a  group  of  school  children,  lads  and  lassies  just  past 
the  age  of  puberty,  and  shows  logically  that  death  and 
degradation  mav  be  their  lot  as  the  outcom.e  of  parental 
reticence.  They  are  not  vicious  children,  but  little  ones 
such  as  we  meet  every  day,  imaginative  beings  living  in 
a  world  of  youthful  ideals  and  speculating  about  the 
mysteries  which  surround  them.  Wendla,  sent  to  her 
grave  by  the  abortive  administered  with  the  connivance 
of  her  affectionate  but  mistaken  mother,  is  a  most  lova- 
ble creature,  while  Melchior,  the  father  of  her  unborn 

M103921 


vi  A  PEOEM  FOR  PRUDES. 

child,  is  a  high  type  of  boy  whose  downfall  is  due  to  a 
philosophic  temperament,  which  leads  him  to  inquire 
into  the  nature  of  life  and  to  impart  his  knowledge  to 
others;  a  temperament  which,  under  proper  guidance, 
would  make  him  a  useful,  intelligent  man.  It  is  Mel- 
chior's  very  excellence  of  character  which  proves  his 
undoing.  That  he  should  be  imprisoned  as  a  m^oral  de- 
generate only  serves  to  illustrate  the  stupidity  of  his 
parents  and  teachers.  As  for  the  suicide  of  Moritz,  the 
imaginative  youth  who  kills  himself  because  he  has 
failed  in  his  examinations,  that  is  another  crime  for 
which  the  dramatist  makes  false  educational  methods 
responsible. 

A  grim  vein  of  humor  is  exhibited  now  and  then,  as 
when  Yv^e  are  introduced  to  the  conference  room  in 
which  the  members  of  a  gymnasium  faculty,  met  to 
consider  the  regulation  of  their  pupils'  morals,  sit  be- 
neath the  portraits  of  Pestalozzi  and  J.  J.  Rousseau 
disputing  with  considerable  acrimony  about  the  opening 
and  shutting  of  a  window.  The  exchange  of  unpleasant 
personalities  is  interrupted  only  by  the  entrance  of  the 
accused  student,  to  whose  defense  the  faculty  refuses  to 
listen,  having  marked  the  boy  for  expulsion  prior  to  the 
formal  farce  of  his  trial. 

"VTedekind  has  been  accused  of  depicting  his  adults 
as  too  ignorant  and  too  indifferent  to  the  needs  of  the 
younger  generation.  But  most  of  us  will  have  to  admit 
that  the  m.ajority  of  his  scenes  and  characters  seem  very 
true  to  life. 

"Frühlings  Erwachen"  m^ay  net  be  pleasant  reading 
exactly,  but  there  is  no  forgetting  it  after  one  has 
perused  it ;  there  is  an  elemental  strength  about  it  which 


A  PROEM  FOR  PRUDES.  vii 

grips  the  intellect.  As  a  play  it  stands  unique  in  the 
annals  of  dramatic  art.  That  it  has  succeeded  in  at- 
tracting much  attention  abroad  is  shown  by  the  fact 
that  this  drama  in  book  form  has  gone  through  twenty- 
six  editions  in  its  original  version  and  has  been  trans- 
lated into  several  European  tongues,  Russian  included, 
while  stage  performances  of  the  work  have  been  given 
in  France  as  well  as  in  Germany. 

The  Teutonic  grimness  of  the  work  puzzled  the 
Parisians,  who  are  not  used  to  having  philosophy  thrust 
at  them  over  the  footlights ;  but  in  Grermany  "Frühlings 
Erwachen"  proved  much  more  successful.  In  Berlin, 
indeed,  it  has  become  part  of  the  regular  stock  of  plays 
acted  at  "Das  iSTeue  Theater,''  where  it  is  said  to  be 
certain  of  drawing  a  crowded  audience.  That  the  play 
is  radically  different  from  anything  given  on  the  Ameri- 
can stage  is  undoubtedly  true.  It  must  be  remembered, 
however,  that  the  Continental  European  playwright  re- 
gards the  stage  as  a  medium  of  instruction,  as  well  as  a 
place  of  amusement.  The  dictum  of  the  Swedish 
dramatist,  August  Strindberg,  that  the  playwright 
should  be  a  lay  priest  preaching  on  vital  topics  of  the  day 
in  a  wav  to  make  them  intellierible  to  mediocre  intellects, 
is  not  appreciated  in  this  country  as  it  should  be ;  but 
once  admit  the  kinship  of  dramatist  and  priest,  and  the 
position  taken  by  Wedekind  in  writing  "Frühlings 
Erwachen"  becomes  self-evident.  There  should  be  no 
question  concerning  the  importance  of  his  topic,  nor 
should  it  be  forgotten  that  the  evident  lesson  he  seeks 
to  inculcate  is  one  now  preached  by  numerous  ethical 
teachers.  In  order  to  estim.ate  the  relationship  of  this 
play  toward  modern  thought  in  Germany,  it  mußt  be 


vüi  A  PROEM  FOR  PRUDES. 

understood  that  Wedekind's  tragedy  is  merely  one  of 
the  documents  in  a  paper  war  which  has  resulted  at  last] 
in  having  the  physiology  of  sex  taught  in  many  German/ 
schools.  The  fact  that  Wedekind's  dialogue  is  frank 
to  a  remarkable  degree  only  makes  his  preachment  more 
effective:  "One  does  not  cure  the  pest  with  attar  of 
roses,"  as  St.  Augustine  remarked. 

Conditions  in  this  country  are  not  so  very  different 
from  those  depicted  in  this  play,  and  evidence  is  not 
lacking  that  gradually,  very  gradually,  we  are  begin- 
ning to  realize  that  ignorance  and  innocence  are  not 
synonymous ;  that  an  evil  is  not  palliated  by  ignoring  its 
existence;  the  Podenappian  wave  of  the  hand  has  not 
disappeared  entirely,  but  it  is  not  quite  as  fashion- 
able as  of  yore.  All  things  considered,  the  moment 
seems  appropriate  for  the  publication  of  "Frühlings 
Erwachen"  in  an  English  version.  The  translation 
given  in  this  volume  follows  the  German  original  as 
closely  as  the  translator  can  reconcile  the  nature  of  the 
two  languages. 

Considered  as  a  work  of  literature,  "Frühlings 
Erwachen"  is  remarkable  as  one  of  the  few  realistic 
studies  of  adolescence.  Its  deceptive  simplicity  is  the 
hall  mark  of  that  supreme  literary  ability  which  knows 
how  to  conceal  art  by  art.  Dealing  with  adolescence,  an 
unformed  period  of  human  life,  it  is  necessarily  without 
the  climaxes  we  expect  in  dramas  in  which  the  char- 
acters are  adult,  and  the  gruesome  scene  in  the  church- 
yard with  which  the  play  closes — a  scene  with  such 
peculiar  symbolism  could  spring  only  from  a  Teutonic 
imagination — leaves  much  unended. 

It  iß  interesting  to  note,  by  the  way,  that  Wedekind 


A  PROEM  FOR  PRUDES.  ix 

himself  appears  as  the  Masked  Man  when  ''Frühlings 
Erwachen"  is  given  in  Berlin,  a  fact  which  gives  this 
scene  somewhat  the  nature  of  a  parahasls. 

Frank  Wedekind's  name  is  just  beginning  to  be 
heard  in  America.  In  Germany  he  has  been  recognized 
for  some  time  as  one  of  the  leaders  in  the  new  art  of 
the  theatre.  Naturally  enough,  his  plays  are  too  out- 
8poken  in  their  realism  to  appeal  to  all  his  fellow- 
countrymen.  But,  if  certain  Germans  reject  this 
mental  pabulum,  others  become  intoxicated  by  it,  and, 
waxing  enthusiastic  with  a  flow  of  language  almost  bac- 
chic,  hail  Wedekind  as  the  forenmner  of  a  now  drama — 
as  a  power  destined  to  infuse  fresh  strength  into  the 
German  stage.  "  With  this  drink  in  its  body,"  writes 
one  admirer,  "  the  public  will  never  more  endure  lyri- 
cal lemonade,  nor  the  dregs  of  dramatic  penury." 

Again,  these  enthusiasts  compare  Wedekind's  work 
to  that  of  the  pre-Shakesperian  dramatists,  or  even  to 
that  of  the  Bard  of  Avon  himself,  both  of  which  com- 
parisons are  difficult  to  grasp  by  an  English-speaking 
student  of  the  British  drama. 

Wedekind,  it  is  true,  has  a  habit  of  using  the  news 
of  the  day  as  material  for  plays,  just  as  the  old  English 
dramatists  did  when  they  wrote  "domestic  tragedies." 
He  has  a  fondness,  m.oreover,  for  gruesome  situations 
such  as  we  can  imagine  appealing  to  the  melancholy 
genius  of  Webster ;  but  of  the  childlike  simplicity  which 
marks  much  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  there  is  not  a 
particle. 

Certainly  there  is  no  trace  of  the  gentle  romanticism 
which  one  finds  in  some  of  the  other  modern  German 
realists.     Gerhart  Hauptmann  can  turn  from  the  grim 


X  A  PROEM  FOR  PRUDES. 

task  of  dramatizing  starvation,  as  he  does  in  "Die 
Weber,"  to  indulge  in  the  naive  Christian  symbolism  of 
"Hannele/'  or  the  mythological  poetry  of  "Die  Ver- 
sunkene Glocke."  Even  the  iconoclast  Strindberg 
writes  romantically  at  times,  and  gives  us  something  re- 
sembling Maeterlinck;  but  when  Wedekind  departs 
from  pure  realism  his  fancy  creates  a  Gothic  nightmare 
of  horrors,  peopled  with  such  terrifying  creatures  as  the 
headless  suicide  wandering  amid  the  graves. 

Wedekind's  kinship  to  the  dramatists  of  the  "domes- 
tic tragedies"  is  shown  clearly  in  the  tragedy  "Musik," 
which  deals  with  a  phase  of  music  study  only  too  com- 
mon in  Germany.  It  is  asserted  that  of  the  thousands 
of  students  of  music  in  that  country  not  one  in  a  hun- 
dred amounts  to  anything  artistically,  while  of  those 
who  master  their  art  not  one  in  a  thousand  is  capable 
of  profiting  financially  by  it.  It  is  this  condition  of 
affairs  which  gives  additional  importance  to  this  recent 
work  of  Wedekind. 

"  Musik  "  is  described  by  the  author  as  a  depiction  of 
morals  in  four  pictures  ("Sittengemälde  in  vier  Bil- 
dern"), to  each  of  which  he  has  given  a  separate 
title,  a  method  which  enables  him  to  indulge  in  his 
trick  of  applying  a  pretty,  inoffensive  name  to  a  tragic 
subject,  as  he  does  in  picture  two  of  this  series,  whicli 
he  calls  "Behind  Swedish  Curtains,"  and  which  repre- 
sents the  interior  of  a  jail.  The  curtains  to  which  the 
playwright  refers  are  the  iron  bars  of  the  prison. 

The  central  character  in  "Musik,"  Klara  Huhner- 
wadel, is  a  neurotic  girl,  whose  mad  love  for  her  sing- 
ing teacher  has  entangled  her  in  the  meshes  of  the  legal 
net  drawn  to  catch  Madame  Fischer,  a  notorious  char- 


A  PROEM  FOR  PRUDES.  xi 

acter  in  real  life,  who  actively  engaged  the  attention  of 
the  German  police  authorities  not  long  ago.  At  the  in- 
stigation of  her  lover,  Josef  Reissner,  and  vrith  money 
supplied  by  Else  Reissner,  Josef's  wife,  Klara  flees 
to  Antwerp,  only  to  find  existence  insupportable  there, 
and  to  return  to  a  life  in  jail  which  drives  her  to  the 
edge  of  insanity.  Released  from  imprisonment,  she 
continues  her  relationship  with  her  teacher  until  their 
association  becomes  public  scandal,  and  then  takes  ref- 
uge in  the  country,  intending  to  devote  her  life  to  her 
illegitimate  child.  The  child  dies,  however,  and  there 
descends  upon  Klara  what  Wedekind  describes  as  ^'the 
curse  of  the  ridiculous."  In  an  outburst  of  frightful 
anguish  she  is  filled  with  ^*'a  nameless  loathing  of  the 
horrible  fate  of  being  racked  to  death  by  bursts  of 
sneering  laughter,"  and  raves  in  hysteria  by  the  bed- 
side of  her  dead  baby. 

Upon  this  final  picture  Wedekind  has  expended  his 
full  power  of  biting  irony.  Josef  Reissner,  the  cause 
of  Klara's  misfortune,  is  thanked  by  her  mother  for  all 
he  has  done  for  her,  while  Eranz  Lindekuh,  a  literary 
man,  whose  role  in  the  play  has  been  that  of  a  good 
Samaritan,  is  accused  as  the  author  of  her  disgrace. 
During  previous  tribulations  Reissner  has  assured 
Klara  repeatedly  that  her  suffering  would  develop  her 
artistic  temperament  and  result  in  bringing  her  fame 
as  a  singer.  At  the  end,  when  Klara,  after  undergoing 
imprisonment,  exile,  poverty,  public  disgrace  and  the 
loss  of  her  beloved  child,  finds  herself  bereft  of  even 
Reissner's  regard,  she  is  led  away  in  a  stupor  from  her 
miserable  attic.  It  is  then,  in  reply  to  a  wish  of  the 
physician  that  she  will  suffer  from  no  lasting  mental 


xii  A  PKOEM  FOR  PRUDES. 

disturbance,  that  Lindekuh  preludes  the  fall  of  the 
curtain  by  the  caustic  remark :  ^'  She'll  be  able  to  sing  a 
song." 

Here,  truly,  is  a  tragedy !  There  can  be  no  doubt  but 
what  Wedekind  has  handled  it  in  a  powerful  fashion. 
He  sounds  the  tragic  note  upon  the  first  rising  of  the 
curtain,  a  note  which  grows  in  intensity  until  the  aud- 
itor wonders  if  it  is  possible  for  it  to  reach  higher 

and  yet  it  swells. 

''Frühlings  Erwachen"  is  the  best  known  of  the  Wede- 
kind  dramas  and  the  most  original  in  its  treatment.  It 
has  peculiarities,  however,  which  make  it  somewhat 
difficult  to  give  as  a  stage  performance.  To  see  what 
this  German  playwright  can  do  on  more  conservative 
lines,  and  to  appreciate  his  mastership  of  the  conven- 
tional technique  of  the  stage,  one  must  turn  to  the 
dramas  of  modern  life  in  which  he  handles  such  sub- 
jects as  socialism,  woman's  emancipation,  naturalism 
and  divorce ;  frequently,  it  must  be  confessed,  in  a  way 
which  Americans  refuse  to  tolerate  upon  the  stage, 
despite  their  fondness  for  the  same  sort  of  informa- 
tion when  supplied  by  the  newspapers. 

Selecting  his  characters  from  all  classes  of  life,  TVede- 
kind  brings  to  their  making  the  knowledge  of  life  as 
the  police  reporter  sees  it  plus  the  science  of  a  skilled 
psychologist.  There  is  something  sardonic  about  his 
art.  He  does  not  appear  to  sympathize  with  any  of  his 
characters,  but  to  stand  outside  of  life  making  note  of 
the  foibles  and  failures  of  his  fellow-creatures.  His 
irony  appears  in  the  most  tragic  places,  and  his  dia- 
logue, wrought  with  a  cunning  which  requires  strict 
attention  on  the  part  of  the  auditor  if  its  subtleties 


A  PROEM  FOR  PRUDES.  xiii 

would  be  grasped,  serves  AYedekind  as  an  iiistr-ament 
for  dissecting  souls  which  he  wields  quite  regardless  of 
the  mesc  he  may  make  in  the  operating  room. 

iSTone  knows  better  how  to  show  the  peculiarities  of  a 
neurotic  woman,  or  to  betray  a  man's  weakness  by  a  few 
short  sentences.  The  demonstration  is  direct  and 
thoroufirh,  and  we  watch  it  fascinated,  as  we  misrht  the 
work  of  a  skilled  vivisectionist.  When  the  job  is  fin- 
ished we  feel  convinced  that  Wedekind's  personages  are 
real,  although  many  of  them  are  not  the  kind  we  enjoy 
meeting  in  actual  life.  We  do  meet  them  daily,  never- 
theless, tolerating  them  chiefly  by  our  own  polite  habit 
of  ascribing  imaginary  virtues  to  those  that  possess 
them  not. 

Take  that  curious  comedy,  ^^Der  [Marquis  von 
Keith,"  as  an  example  of  Wedekind's  skill  as  a  psy- 
chologist. ''Comedy"  the  author  names  it  himself,  but 
he  might  just  as  well  have  called  it  a  tragic  farce,  so 
thoroughly  has  he  mingled  the  laughable  with  the  tragic. 
The  protagonist  of  this  peculiar  play  (the  underlying 
tone  of  which  has  been  likened  musically  to  a  Dies  Irae 
written  by  Offenbach)  is  the  illegitimate  son  of  a  teacher 
of  mathematics  and  a  gypsy  trull,  an  adventurer  who 
keeps  on  the  shady  side  of  the  law,  and  who,  despite  his 
practical  view  of  life  in  general,  is  an  idealist  in  several 
particulars.  His  title  of  Marquis  von  Keith  is  merely 
a  nom  de  guerre,  and  his  attempts  to  obtain  a  fortune 
involve  methods  which  the  world  acclaims  as  evidences 
of  wonderful  financial  ability,  or  stigmatizes  as  the 
practices  of  a  sharper,  according  to  their  success  or  fail- 
ure. Resourceful,  energetic,  unhampered  by  vain  re- 
grets  or   restrictions   of  conventional   morals,   wasting 


xiv  A  PKOEM  FOR  PRUDES. 

not  a  moment  upon  a  scheme  wkich  has  proved  unprofit- 
able,  von  Keith  is  a  forceful  personage  who  manages 
to  pass  in  Munich  as  a  wealthy  American,  even  when 
his  pockets  are  empty  and  the  sheriff  is  at  the  door. 
His  own  view  of  life  is  embodied  in  his  definition  of 
sin  as  ^'the  mythological  symbol  for  bad  business,"  and 
his  accompanying  explanation  that  good  business  can 
be  conducted  only  by  a  person  accepted  by  the  existing 
order  of  society. 

In  other  words,  von  Keith  is  a  hypocrite  for  revenue 
only,  but  never  is  deceived  concerning  his  own  person- 
ality. 

The  play  deals  with  von  Keith's  scheme  to  build  an 
amusement  hall,  to  be  known  as  "The  Fairy  Palace.'' 
He  applies  himself  so  sedulously  that  his  plans  are  on 
the  eve  of  realization,  when  suddenly  he  finds  himself 
ousted  from  the  management  of  his  own  enterprise  by 
the  very  men  he  has  interested  in  it. 

'Now  all  this  is  comedy,  of  course,  but  Wedekind  is 
not  to  be  deprived  of  his  predeliction  for  the  minor  key. 
He  introduces  the  tragic  tone  in  this  instance  right  in 
the  final  scene,  when  von  Keith  is  confronted  by  the 
dead  body  of  his  common-law  wife,  Molly  Griefinger. 
In  some  respects  this  episode  resembles  a  travesty  upon 
the  final  act  of  Sudermann's  "Sodoms  Ende ;"  but  it  is 
characteristic  of  Wedekind  that  he  makes  Molly  kill  her- 
self because  she  fears  von  Keith's  success  will  estrange 
her  from  her  husband,  and  that  her  suicide  is  followed 
directly  by  the  failure  of  von  Keith's  well-laid  plans, 
just  as  they  seemed  about  to  mature. 

It  is  characteristic,  also,  that  the  crowd  which  de- 
nounces von  Keith  as  the  cause  of  Molly's  death,  and 


A  PEOEM  FOR  PRUDES.  xv 

which  threatens  to  do  him  bodily  harm,  is  composed  of 
tradesmen  whose  initial  cause  of  discontent  is  to  be 
found  in  the  promoter's  failure  to  pay  his  bills. 

Wedekind's  certainty  of  touch  is  as  much  in  evidence 
in  his  handling  of  his  minor  characters  as  it  is  in  the 
portrayal  of  von  Keith.     There  is  Molly,  whose  little 
bourgeois  soul  fears  the  great  world,  shrinks  from  her 
husband's  acquaintances,  and  dreads  to  take  its  place 
among  the  wealthy  classes;  Siniba,  the  artist's  model, 
who  is  astonished  at  anybody  pitying  her  as  a  victim  of 
civilization  when   she  can  get   drunk  on  champagne; 
Casimir,    the   wealthy   merchant;    and   the    Bohemian 
painter  Saranieif,  with  his  friend  Zamrjaki,  the  com- 
poser.   As  an  antithesis  to  von  Keith  we  are  introduced 
to  Ernst  Scholz,  a  weakling  whose  soul  is  torn  by  in- 
ternal strife,  until  its  owner  is  at  peace  neither  with  him- 
self nor  the  world.     Scholz  wastes  his  time  seeking  a 
reason  for  his  own  existence  and  in  longing  to  become  a 
useful  member  of  society;  von  Keith  scorns  to  bother 
his  brain  with  such  trifles,  boldly  proclaiming  the  Xietz- 
schean  doctrine  that  the  only  way  to  be  useful  to  others 
is  to  help  one's  self  as  much  as  possible,  and  asserting 
that  he  would  rather  gather  cigar  stumps  in  the  cafe 
gutters  than  live  in  slothful  peace  in  the  country.    There 
is  no  doubt  about  von  Keith  being  a  rogue,  in  the  con- 
ventional acceptance  of  the  term,  but  his  enthusiasm 
appeals  to  us  and  we  feel  for  him  in  his  undoing  at  the 
end  of  the  play. 

In  "Die  Junge  "Welt"  Wedekind  shows  us  the  laugh- 
able attempts  of  a  party  of  young  girls  to  live  a  life 
of  celibacy  in  pursuance  of  a  resolution  taken  in  board- 
ing school.     It  is  an  amusing  comedy,   and  contains, 


xvi  A  PEOEM  FOE  PEUDES. 

among  other  interesting  personages,  a  literary  man,  who 
nearly  drives  his  wife  to  divorce  by  his  habit  of  jotting 
down  notes  of  her  emotions,  even  when  he  is  kissing  her. 

An  opportunity  to  comment  upon  the  German  lese 
majesty  is  not  neglected  by  Wedekind  in  the  romantic 
drama,  "  So  ist  das  Leben,"  a  dignified  and  carefully 
wrought  work,  partly  in  verse,  which  deals  with  the 
tribulations  of  a  deposed  monarch  in  his  own  country. 
This  exiled  king  becomes  tramp,  tailor  and  strolling 
player,  to  end  eventually  as  court  jester  of  the  very  man 
who  has  taken  his  place  on  the  throne. 

^"Der  Kammersänger,"  three  scenes  from  the  life  of 
a  popular  tenor,  is  little  more  than  a  dramatic  sketch. 
^'Der  Erdgeist"  and  ^'Die  Büchse  der  Pandora,"  two 
plays  which  constitute  an  integral  whole,  deal  with 
a  lady  who  embraces  Mrs.  Warren's  profession. 
These,  with  ''Der  Leibestrank"  and  ''Oaha,"  two  farces, 
with  traces  of  real  psychology,  round  out  the  total  of 
Wedekind's  dramatic  works.  In  addition,  he  has  in- 
dulged in  verse-making  and  written  a  number  of  short 
stories  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  De  ^laupassant. 

One  may  feel  at  times  that  Wedekind's  art  would 
gain  by  the  exercise  of  more  restraint,  but  there  is  no 
denying  it  is  a  great  relief  from  ''lyric  lemonade." 

An  attempt  to  explain  symbolism  is  usually  a  dan- 
gerous matter.  If  a  failure,  it  makes  the  one  who 
essays  the  task  ridiculous.  If  successful,  it  cheapens 
the  value  of  the  symbolism;  symbolism  being  a  kind 
of  an  overtone  to  verbal  reasoning,  to  which  it  bears 
much  the  same  relationship  as  music  does  to  poetry. 
In  spite  of  this  double  danger,  the  translator  ventures 
to  close  this  review  with  a  guess  at  the  personality  of 


A  PROEM  FOE  PEIJDES.  xvii 

the  Masked  Man  who  plays  such  an  important  part  in 
the  final  scene  of  "Frühlings  Erwachen"  and  to  whom 
the  author  has  dedicated  the  play.  To  the  translator, 
then,  this  mysterious  personage  is  none  other  than  Life, 
Life  in  its  reality,  not  Life  as  seen  through  the  fogged 
glasses  of  Melchior's  pedagogues  or  the  purblind  eyes  of 
the  unfortunate  mother  who  sends  her  daughter  to  an 
untimely  grave. 

EEANCIS  J.  ZIEGLER. 
June,  1909. 


Hutbot's  Deöfcation 
TO  THE  MASKED  MAN 


ACT  i 


The  Awakening  of  Spring. 


SCENE  EIRST. 
A  Dwelling  Room. 

Why  have  you  made  my  dress  so  long,  Mother? 

Eeau  Bergmann. 
You  are  fourteen  years  old  to-day. 

"Wendla. 

Had  I  kno^m  you  were  going  to  make  my  dress  bo 
long,  I  would  rather  not  have  been  fourteen. 

EsATJ  Eeegmann. 
The  dresB  is  rot  too  long,  Wendla.     What  do  you 
want  1    Can  I  help  it  that  my  child  is  two  inches  taller 
eTery  spring?     As  a  grown-up  maiden  you  cannot  go 
about  in  short  dresses. 

Weitdla. 
At  any  rate,  my  short  dress  becomes  me  hetter  than 

this  nightgown. ^Let  me  ^ear  it  «?-«' f  "t^^' ^^^^ 

through  this  summer.    This  penitential  robe  ^ill  fi t  m 
just  as  well  whether  I  am  fifteen  or  fourteen.     Lets 
•■  23 


2i,  ;  THE   AWAKEMKG 

jKit' it  ß.sldi  xmiil.'xtjj  next  birthday,  now  I  should  only 
teai'  the  flounces. 

Frau  Beegmank". 

I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  want  to  take  special 
care  of  you  just  now,  child.     Other  girls  are  hardy  and 

plump  at  your  age.     You  are  the  contrary. Who 

knows  what 'you  will  be  when  the  others  have  developed  ? 

Wendla. 

Who  knows possibly  I  shall  not  be  at  all. 

Eeau  Bekqmanis^. 
Child,  child,  how  do  such  thoughts  come  to  you! 

Wendla. 

Don't,  dear  Mother,  don't  be  sad. 

Feau  Beegmann. 

(Kissing  her.) 
My  own  darling! 

Wendla. 

They  come  to  me  at  night  when  I  can't  sleep.  I  am 
not  made  sad  by  them,  and  I  believe  that  I  sleep  better 
after  them.  Is  it  sinful.  Mother,  to  have  such 
thoughts  ? 

Feau  Beegmanist. 

Go  hang  the  long  dress  up  in  the  closet.    Put  on  your 

short    dress    again,    in    God's    name  1-^ 1    will    put 

another  depth  of  ruffles  on  it. 


OF  SPRING.  25 

Wendla. 
(Hanging  the  dress  in  the  closet.) 
]N'o,  I  would  rather  be  twenty  at  once ! 


Ekatj  Bergmann. 

If  only  you  are  not  too  cold ! The  dress  was  long 

enough  for  you  in  its  time,  but 

Wendla. 

Now,  when  summer  is   coming? Mother,   when 

one  is  a  child,  one  doesn't  catch  diphtheria  in  one's 
knees !  Who  would  be  so  cowardly.  At  my  age  one 
doesn't  freeze — least  of  all  in  the  legs.  Would  it  be 
any  better  for  me  to  be  too  warm,  Mother?  Give 
thanks  to  God  if  some  day  your  darling  doesn't  tear  out 
the  sleeves  and  come  to  you  at  twilight  without  her 
shoes  and  stockings ! — If  I  wore  my  long  dress  T  should 
dress  like  an  elfin  queen  under  it. — ^Don't  scold,  Mother ! 
Nobody  sees  it  any  more. 


SCENE  SECOND. 

Sunday  Evening. 

Melchiob. 

This  is  too  tiresome  for  me.     I  won't  do  anything 
more  with  it. 

Otto. 

Then  we  others  can  stop,  too ! Have  you  the  work, 

Melchior  ? 


26  THE  AWAKENING 

Melchioe. 
Keep  right  on  playing ! 

Mobitz. 
Where  are  you  going  ? 

Melchioe. 
For  a  walk. 

Geokqe. 
But  it's  growing  dark ! 

KOBEBT. 

Have  you  the  work  already  ? 

Melchioe. 
Why  shouldn't  I  go  walking  in  the  dark  ? 

Ernest. 

Central  America  ! Louis  the  Fifteenth ! Sixty 

verses  of  Homer ! Seven  equations  I 

Melchioe. 
Damn  the  work ! 

George. 
If  only  Latin  composition  didn't  come  to-morrow ! 


OF  SPRING.  27 

Moritz. 

One  can't  think  of  anything  without  a  task  inter- 
vening. 

Otto. 

I'm  going  home. 


I,  too,  to  work. 


George. 


Ernest. 


I,  too,  I  too. 

Robert. 
Good-night,  Melchior. 

Melchior. 

Sleep  well !      (All  withdraiu  save  Moritz  and  Mel- 
chior.)    I'd  like  to  know  why  we  really  are  on  earth ! 

MOKITZ. 

I'd  rather  be  a  cab-horse  than  go  to  school ! Why 

do  we  go  to  school  ? We  go  to  school  so  that  somebody 

can  examine  its  ! And  whv  do  thev  examine  lis  ? 

In  order  that  we  may  fail.     Seven  must  fail,  because  the 

upper  classroom  will  hold  only  sixty. 1  feel  so  queer 

since  Christmas. The  devil  take  me,  if  it  were  not 

for  Papa,  I'd  pack  my  bundle  and  go  to  Altoona  to-day  I 


28  THE   AWAKENING 

Melchioe. 
Let^s  talk  of  something  else 


{They  go  for  a  walk.) 

Mobitz. 

Do  jou  see  that  black  cat  there  with  its  tail  stick- 
ing up  l 

Melchior. 
Do  you  believe  in  omens  ? 

Mobitz. 

I  don't  know  exactly.    They  come  down  to  us.    They 
don't  matter. 

Melchioe. 

I  believe  that  is  the  Charybdis  on  which  one  runs  when 

one  steers  clear  of  the  Scylla  of  religious  folly. 

Let's  sit  down  under  this  beech  tree.  The  cool  wind 
blows  over  the  mountains.  ISTow  I  should  like  to  be  a 
young  dryad  up  there  in  the  wood  to  cradle  myself  in 
the  topmost  branches  and  be  rocked  the  livelong  night. 

MOEITZ. 

F'abutton  your  vest,  Melchior. 

Melchioe. 
Ha ! How  clothes  make  one  puff  up ! 


OF   SPRIIs^G.  29 

Mobitz. 

God  knows,  it's  growing  so  dark  that  one  can't  see 

one's  hand  before  one's  eyes.     Where  are  you  ? Do 

you  believe,  Melchior,  that  the  feeling  of  shame  in  man 
is  only  a  product  of  his  education  ? 

Melchioe. 

I  was  thinking  over  that  for  the  first  time  the  day 
before  yesterday.  It  seems  to  me  deeply  rooted  in  hu- 
man nature.  Only  think,  you  must  appear  entirely 
clothed  before  vour  best  friend.    You  wouldn't  do  so  if 

he  didn't  do  the  same  thing. Therefore,  it's  more 

or  less  of  a  fashion. 

MOEITZ. 

I  have  often  thought  that  if  I  have  children,  boys 
and  girls,  I  vdll  let  them  occupy  the  same  room;  let 
them  sleep  together  in  the  same  bed,  if  possible;  let 
them  help  eack  other  dress  and  undress  night  and  morn- 
ing. In  hot  weather,  the  boys  as  well  as  the  girls, 
should  wear  nothing  all  day  long  but  a  skort  white 

woollen  tunic  with  a  girdle. It  seems  to  me  that  if 

they  grew  up  that  way  they  would  be  easier  in  mind 
than  we  are  under  the  present  regulations. 

Melchior. 

I  believe  so  decidedly,  Moritz ! The  only  question 

is,  suppose  the  girls  have  children,  what  then  ? 


30  THE   AWAKE^^ING 

Mobitz. 
How  could  they  have  children  ? 

Melchioe. 

In  that  respect  I  believe  in  instinct.  I  believe,  for 
example,  that  if  one  brought  up  a  male  and  a  female  cat 
together,  and  kept  both  separated  from  the  outside 
world — that  is,  left  them  entirely  to  their  own  devices — 
that,  sooner  or  later,  the  she  cat  would  become  pregnant, 
even  if  she,  and  the  tom  cat  as  well,  had  nobody  to  open 
tkeir  eyes  by  example. 

Mobitz. 
That  might  happen  with  animals 

Melchioe. 

I  believe  the  same  of  human  beings.  I  assure  you, 
Moritz,  if  your  boys  sleep  in  the  same  bed  with  the 
girls,  and  the  first  emotion  of  manhood  comes  unex- 
pectedly to  them — I  should  like  to  wager  with  any- 
one  

Mobitz. 
You  may  be  right — but  after  all 

Melchioe. 

And  when  your  girls  reached  the  same  age  it  would 
be  the  same  with  them!  !N'ot  that  the  girls  exactly — 
one  can't  judge  that  tke  same,  certainly — at  any  rate,  it 


OF  spri:n^g.  bi 

is  supposable— and  tken  their  curiosity  must  not  be  left 
out  of  account. 

MOKITZ. 

A  question,  by  the  way 

Melchior. 

Wein 

Mobitz. 

But  you  will  answer  ? 

Melchior. 
Naturally ! 

Mobitz. 

Truly?  ! 

Melchiob. 
My  hand  on  it. Now,  Moritz  ? 

Moritz. 
Have  you  written  your  composition  yet  ?  ? 

Melchior. 

Speak  right  out  from  your  heart! Nobody  sees 

or  hears  us  here. 


32  THE   AWAKE:N^ING 

Mobitz. 

Of  course,  mj  children  will  have  to  work  all  day  long 
in  yard  or  garden,  or  find  their  amusement  in  games 
which  are  combined  with  physical  exercise.  They  must 
ride,  do  gymnastics,  climb,  and,  above  all  things,  must 
not  sleep  as  soft  as  we  do.  We  are  weakened  fright- 
fully.  1  believe  one  would  not  dream  if  one  slept 

harder. 

Melchior. 

From  now  until  fall  I  shall  sleep  only  in  my  ham- 
mock. I  have  shoved  my  bed  back  of  the  stove.  It  is  a 
folding  one.  Last  winter  I  dreamed  once  that  I 
flogged  our  Lolo  until  he  couldn't  move  a  limb.     That 

was  the  most  gruesome  thing  I  ever  dreamed. Why 

do  you  look  at  me  so  strangely  ? 

Mobitz. 
Have  you  experienced  it  yet  ? 

Melchiob. 
What? 

Mobitz. 

How  do  you  say  it  ? 

Melchiob. 
Manhood's  emotion  ? 

Mobitz. 
M— 'hm. 


Certainly ! 


I  also 


OF   SPRING.  33 

Melchiob. 

MOEITZ. 


Melchior. 

IVe  known  that  for  a  long  wkile! Almost  for  a 

year. 

MOEITZ. 

I  was  startled  as  if  by  lightning. 

Melchioe. 
Did  yon  dream  ? 

Mobitz. 

Only  for  a  little  while — of  legs  in  light  blue  tights, 
that  strode  over  the  teacher's  desk — to  be  correct,  I 
thought  they  wanted  to  go  over  it.  I  only  saw  them  for 
an  instant, 

Melchioe. 
George  Zirschnitz  dreamed  of  his  mother. 

Mobitz. 
Did  he  tell  you  that  ? 


34  THE   AWAKE:N^INa 

Melchioe. 
Out  there  on  the  gallow's  road. 

M021TZ. 

^  If  you  only  knew  wkat  I  have  endured  since  that 

night ! 

Melchior. 

Qualms  of  conscience  ? 

Mobitz. 
Qualms  of  conscience  ?  ? The  anguish  of  deatk ! 

Melchioe. 

Gk)od  Lord 

Mobitz. 

I  thought  I  was  incurable.    I  believed  I  was  suffering 

from  an  inward  hurt. Finally  I  became  calm  enough 

to  begin  to  jot  down  the  recollections  of  my  life.  Yes, 
yes,  dear  Melchior,  the  last  three  weeks  have  been  a 
Gethsemane  for  me. 

Melchioe. 

I  was  more  or  less  prepared  for  it  when  it  came.     I 
felt  a  little  ashamed  of  myself. But  that  was  all. 

Mobitz. 
And  yet  you  are  a  whole  year  younger  than  I  am» 


OF  SPRING.  35 

Melchioe. 

I  wouldn't  bother  about  that,  Moritz.  All  my  ex- 
perience shows  that  the  appearance  of  this  phantom  be- 
longs to  no  particular  age.  You  know  that  big  Läm- 
mermeier  with  the  straw-colored  hair  and  the  hooked 
nose.  He  is  three  years  older  than  I  am.  Little  Hans 
Rilow  says  Lämmermeier  dreams  now  only  of  tarts  and 
apricot  preserves. 

Mobitz. 
But,  I  ask  you,  how  can  Hans  Rilow  know  that  ? 

Melchioe. 
He  asked  him. 

Mobitz. 
He  asked  him  ? 1  didn't  dare  ask  anybody. 

Melchioe. 
But  you  asked  me. 

Mobitz. 

God  knows,  yes! Possibly  Hans,  too,  has  made 

his  will. Truly  they  play  a  remarkable  game  with 

us.  And  we're  expected  to  give  thanks  for  it.  I  don't 
remember  to  have  had  any  longing  for  this  kind  of  ex- 
citement. Why  didn't  they  let  me  sleep  peacefully  until 
all  was  still  again.     My  dear  parents  might  have  had 


36  THE   AWAKENIISTG 

a  hundred  better  children.  I  came  here,  I  don't  know 
how,   and  must  be  responsible  because   I  didn't  stay 

away. Haven't  you  often  wondered,  Melchior,  by 

what  means  we  were  brought  into  this  whirl  ? 

Melchioe. 
Don't  you  know  that  yet  either,  Moritz  ? 

Mobitz. 

How  should  I  know  it  ?  I  see  how  the  hens  lay  eggs, 
and  hear  that  Mamma  had  to  carry  me  imder  her  heart. 

But  is  that  enough? 1  remember,  too,  when  I  was 

a  üve  year  old  child,  to  have  been  embarrassed  when 
anyone  turned  up  the  decollete  queen  of  hearts. 
This  feeling  has  disappeared.  At  the  same  time,  I  can 
hardly  talk  with  a  girl  to-day  without  thinking  of  some- 
thing indecent,  and — I  swear  to  you,  Melchior — I  don't 
know  what. 

Melchioe. 

I  will  tell  you  everything.  I  have  gotten  it  partly 
from  books,  partly  from  illustrations,  partly  from  ob- 
servations of  nature.  You  will  be  surprised ;  it  made 
me  an  atheist.  I  told  it  to  George  Zirschnitz !  George 
Zirschnitz  wanted  to  tell  it  to  Hans  Rilow,  but  Hans 
Rilow  had  learned  it  all  from  his  governess  when  he  was 
a  child. 

Mobitz. 

I  have  gone  through  Meyer's  Little  Encyclopedia 
from  A  to  Z.     Words — nothing  but  words  and  words! 


OF  SPRING.  37 

Xot  a  single  plain  explanation.     Oh,  this  feeling  of 

shame  I What  good  to  me  is  an  encyclopedia  that 

won't  answer  me  concerning  the  most  important  ques« 
tion  in  life  ? 

Mblchioe. 

Did  you  ever  see  two  dogs  running  together  abou^ 
the  streets  ? 

Mobitz. 

j^o! Don't   tell   me   anything   to-day,   Melchior. 

I  have  Central  America  and  Louis  the  Fifteenth  before 
me.     And  then  the  sixty  verses  of  Homer,  the  seven 

equations  and  the  Latin  composition. 1  would  fail 

in  all  of  them  again  to-morrow.     To  drudge  success- 
fully I  must  be  as  stupid  as  an  ox. 

Melchioe. 

Come  with  me  to  my  room.  In  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  I  will  have  the  Homer,  the  equations  and  two 
compositions.  I  will  put  one  or  two  harmless  errors  in 
yours,  and  the  thing  is  done.  Mamma  will  make  lemon- 
ade for  us  again,  and  we  can  chat  comfortably  about 
propagation. 

MOEITZ. 

I  can't 1  can't  chat  comfortably  about  propaga- 
tion !  If  you  want  to  do  me  a  favor,  give  me  your  in- 
formation in  writing.  Write  me  out  what  you  know. 
Write  it  as  briefly  and  clearly  as  possible,  and  put  it 
between  my  books  to-morrow   during  rec6«s.      I  will 


38  THE   AWAKEIS^ING 

carry  it  home  without  knowing  that  I  have  it.     I  will 
find  it  unexpectedly.     I  cannot  but  help  going  over  it 

with  tired  eyes in  case  it  is  hard  to  explain,  you  can 

use  a  marginal  diagram  or  so. 

Melchioe. 

You  are  like  a  girl. Nevertheless,  as  you  wish. 

It  will  he  a  very  interesting  task  for  me. One  ques- 
tion, Moritz? 

Moritz. 

Hm? 

Melchior. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  girl  ? 

MORITZ. 

YesI 

Melchior. 
All  of  her? 

MORITZ. 

Certainly ! 

Melchior. 
So  have  I ! Then  we  won't  need  any  illustrations. 

MORITZ. 

During    the    Schützenfest    in    Leilich's    anatomical 


OF  SPEING.  39 

museum!     If  it  had  leaked  out  I  should  have  been 

hunted  out  of  school. Beautiful  as  the  light  of  day, 

and oh,  so  true  to  nature! 

Melchioe. 

I  was  at  Frankfurt  with  Mamma  last  summer 

Are  you  going  already,  Moritz  ? 

Moritz. 
I  must  work. Good-night. 

Melchior. 
'Till  we  meet  again. 


sce:n'e  thied. 

Thea,  Wendla  and  Martha  come  along  the  street  arm 

in  arm, 

Martha. 
How  the  water  gets  into  one's  shoes ! 

Wendla. 
How  the  wind  blows  against  one's  cheeks ! 

Thea. 
How  one's  heart  thumps ! 


40  THE   AWAKENING 

Wendla. 

Let's  go  out  there  to  the  bridge.  Use  says  the  stream 
is  full  of  bushes  and  trees.  The  boys  have  built  a  ratt. 
Melchi  Gabor  was  almost  drowned  yesterday. 

Thea. 
Oh,  he  can  swim! 

Maetha. 
I  should  think  so,  child ! 

"Wexdla. 

If  he  hadn't  been  able  to  swim  he  would  have  been 
drowned ! 

Thea. 

Your  hair  is  coming  down,  Martha,  your  hair  is  com- 
ing down. 

Martha. 

Pooh ! Let  it  come  down !    It  bothers  me  day  and 

night.  I  may  not  wear  short  hair  like  you ;  I  may  not 
wear  my  hair  down  my  back  like  Wendla;  I  may  not 
wear  bangs,  and  I  must  always  do  my  hair  up  at  home 
' all  on  account  of  my  aunt ! 

W-EHTD-LA, 

I'll  bring  the  scissors  with  me  to-morrow  to  devotions. 
While  you  are  saying,  ^^Blessed  are  they  who  do  not 
stray,"  I  will  clip  it  off. 


OF  SPRING.  41 

Maetha. 

For  heaven's  sake,  Wendla!  Papa  would  beat  me 
black  and  blue,  and  Mamma  would  lock  me  up  in  the 
coal  hole  for  three  nights. 

Wendla. 
What  does  he  beat  you  with,  Martha  ? 

Martha. 

It  often  seems  to  me  as  if  they  would  miss  something 
if  they  didn't  have  an  ill-conditioned  brat  like  me. 

Thea. 
Why,  girl! 

Martha. 

Are  you  ever  allowed  to  put  a  blue  ribbon  through 
the  top  of  your  chemise  ? 

•  Thea. 

A  pink  ribbon!  Mamma  thinks  a  pink  ribbon  goes 
well  with  my  big  dark  eyes. 

Maetha. 

Blue  suits  me  to  a  T ! Mamma  pulled  me  out  of 

bed  by  the  hair.     I  fell  with  my  hands  out  so  on  the 
floor. Mamma  prayed  night  after  night  with  us — 


'4:2  THE   AWAKEXIIS^G 

In  your  place  I  should  have  run  away  long  aero. 

Maetha. 

There  yon  have  it!     The  reason  I  am  going  away! 
-There  you  have  it ! They  will  soon  see oh, 


they  will  soon  see !     At  least  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
reproach  my  mother 

Thea. 
H'm,  h'm. 

Martha. 
Can  you  imagine,  Thea,  what  Mamma  meant  by  it  ? 

Thea. 
I  can't can  you,  Wendla  ? 

Wendla. 
I  should  simply  have  asked  her. 

Maetha. 

I  lay  on  the  floor  and  shrieked  and  howled.     Then 

Papa  came  in.     Rip he  tore  off  my  chemise.     Out 

of  the  door  I  went.      There  you  have  it! 1  only 

wanted  to  get  out  in  the  street  that  way 

Wendla. 
But  that  is  not  so,  Martha. 


OF   SPRIXG.  ^3 

Maetha. 

I  froze.     I  was  locked  up.     I  had  to  sleep  all  night 
in  a  sack. 

Thea. 

Never  in  my  life  could  I  sleep  in  a  sack ! 

Wexdla. 
I  only  wish  I  could  sleep  once  for  you  in  your  sack. 

Martha, 
If  only  one  weren't  beaten ! 

Thea. 
But  one  would  suffocate  in  it ! 

Maetha. 
Your  head  is  left  outside.     It's  tied  under  your  chin. 

Thea. 
And  then  they  beat  you  ? 

Maetha. 
No.     Only  when  there  is  special  occasion. 

Wexdla. 
^Vhat  do  they  beat  you  with,  Martha  ? 


44  THE   AWAKENING 

Martha. 

Oh,    with    anything   that    is   handy. Does    your 

mother  think  it's  naughty  to  eat  a  piece  of  bread  in  bed  l 

Wendla. 
No !  no ! 

Martha. 

I  believe  they  enjoy  it even  if  they  don't  say  so. 

If  I  ever  have  children  I  will  let  them  grow  np  like  the 
weeds  in  onr  flower  garden.      Nobody  worries   about 

them  and  they  grow  so  high  and  thick while  the 

roses  in  the  beds  grow  poorer  and  poorer  every  summer. 

Thea. 

If  I  have  children  I  shall  dress  them  all  in  pink. 
Pink  hats,  pink  dresses,  pink  shoes.     Only  the  stockings 

the  stockings  shall  be  black  as  night!    When  I  go 

for  a  walk  they  shall  march  in  front  of  me. And 

you,  Wendla  ? 

Wendla. 
How  do  you  know  that  you  will  have  any  ? 

Thea. 

Why  skouldn't  we  have  any? 

Martha. 
Well,  Aunt  Euphemia  hasn't  any. 


OF   SPRIISrG.  45 

Thea. 
You  goose,  that's  because  she  isn't  married. 

Wendla. 

Aunt  Bauer  was  married  three  times  and  she  didn't 
have  a  single  one. 

Maktha. 

If  you  have  any,  Wendla,  which  would  you  rather 
have,  boys  or  girls  ? 

Wendla. 
Boys !  boys ! 

Thea. 
I,  too,  boys ! 

Maetha. 
So  would  I.     Better  twenty  boys  than  three  girls. 

Thea. 
Girls  are  tiresome. 

Maetha. 

If  I  weren't  a  girl  already  I  certainly  wouldn't  want 
to  be  one. 

Wendi^a. 

That's  a  matter  of  taste,  I  believe,  Martha.     I  re- 
joice  every   day   that    I    am   a   girl.      Believe   me,   I 

wouldn't  change  places  with   a  king's  son. That's 

the  reason  why  I  only  want  boys  I 


46  THE   AWAKE:N^ING 

Thea. 
But  that's  crazy,  pure  craziness,  Wendla! 

Wendla. 

But  it  must  be  a  thousand  times  more  exciting  to  be 
loved  by  a  man  than  by  a  girl ! 

Thea. 

But  you  don't  want  to  assert  that  Forest  Inspector 
Pfälle  loves  Melitta  more  than  she  does  him. 

Wendla. 

That  I  do,  Thea.     Pfälle  is  proud.     Pfälle  is  proud 
because  he  is  a  forest  inspector — for  Pfälle  has  nothing. 

Melitta  is   happy  because  she  gets  ten  thousand 

times  more  than  she  is. 

Martha. 
Aren't  you  proud  of  yourself,  Wendla  ? 

Wendla. 
That  would  be  silly. 

Martha. 
In  your  place  I  should  be  proud  of  my  appearance. 


OF   SPRING.  47 

Thtea. 

Only  look  how  she  steps  out how  iree  her  glance 

is — how  she  holds  herself,  Martha.     Isn't  that  pride? 


Wendla. 

Why  not  ?    I  am  so  happy  to  be  a  girl ;  if  I  weren't  a 
girl  I  should  break  down  the  next  time , 

(Melchior  passes  and  greets  them.) 


Thea. 
He  has  a  wonderful  head. 

Maetha. 

He  makes  me  think  of  the  young  Alexander  going  to 
school  to  Aristotle. 

Thea. 

Oh  dear,  Greek  history ! 1  only  know  how  Socra- 
tes lay  in  his  barrel  when  Alexander  sold  him  the  ass^ 
shadow. 

Weitdi^. 

He  stands  third  in  his  class. 

Thea. 

Professor  Knochenbruch  says  he  can  be  first  if  he 
wants. 


48  THE  AWAKENIISTG 

Mjlbtha. 

He  has  a  beautiful  brow,  but  his  friend  has  a  soulful 
look. 

Thea. 

Moritz  Stiefel  ? He's  a  stupid ! 

Matctha. 
IVe  always  gotten  along  well  with  him. 

Thea. 

He  disgraces  anybody  who  is  with  him.     At  RiloVs 
party    he    offered    me    some    bon-bons.      Only    think, 

Wendla,  they  were  soft  and  warm.    Isn't  that ?    He 

said   he  had  kept  them  too  long  in  his  trouser's  pocket. 

Wendla. 

Oniy  think,  Melchi  Gabor  told  me  once  that  he  didn't 

believe  anything not  in  God,  not  in  a  hereafter 

in  anything  more  in  this  world. 

SCENE  FOUKTH. 

A  yark  in  front  of  the  grammar  school,     Melchior, 
Otto,  George,  Robert,  Hans  Rilow  and  Lammermeier, 

Melchior. 

Can  any  of  you  say  where  Moritz  Stiefel  is  keeping 
himself  ? 


OF   SPRIXG.  49 

George. 

It  may  go  hard  with  him! Oh,  it  may  go  hard 

with  him ! 

Otto. 
He'll  keep  on  until  he  gets  caught  dead  to  rights. 

Laemmermeier. 

Lord  knows,  I  wouldn't  want  to  be  in  his  skin  at  this 
moment ! 

Robert. 

What  cheek!     What  insolence! 


Melchior. 
Wha Wha what  do  you  know  ? 

George. 
What  do  we  know  ? IsoWy  I  tell  you- 

Laemmermeier. 
I  wish  I  hadn't  said  anything ! 


Otto. 
So  do  I God  knows  I  do! 

Melchior. 
If  you  don't  at  once 


50  THE   AWAKENi:^G 

Robert. 

The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  Moritz  Stiefel  has 
broken  into  the  Board  Room. 

Melchioe. 
Into  the  Board  Room ? 

Otto. 
Into  the  Board  Room.     Right  after  the  Latin  lesson. 

George. 
He  was  the  last.     He  hung  back  intentionally. 

Laem:mermeier. 

As  I  turned  the  corner  of  the  corridor,  I  saw  him 
open  the  door. 

Melchior. 
The  devil  take 

Laemmermeier. 
If  only  the  devil  doesn't  take  him. 

George. 
Perhaps  the  Rector  didn't  take  the  key. 

Robert. 
Or  Moritz  Stiefel  carries  a  skeleton  key. 

Otto. 
That  may  be  possible. 


OF  SPRING.  51 

Laemmekmeiek. 
If  he  has  luck,  he'll  only  be  kept  in. 

Egbert. 
Besides  getting  a  demerit  mark  in  his  report  I 

Otto. 
If  this  doesn't  result  in  his  being  kicked  out. 

Hans  Rilow. 
There  he  is ! 

Melchiob. 

White  as  a  handkerchief. 

(Moritz  comes  in  in  great  agitation.) 

Laemmeemeier. 
Moritz,  Moritz,  what  have  you  done ! 

MORITZ. 

!N'othing nothing 

Robert. 
You're  feverish! 

MORITZ. 

From  good  fortune from  happiness from  ju* 

hilation 


52  THE  AWAKENIJSTG 

Otto. 


You  were  caught ! 


Mobitz. 


I  am  promoted  ! Melchior,  I  am  promoted !     Oh, 

I  don't  care  what  happens  now ! 1  am  promoted ! 

Who  would  have  believed  that  I  should  be  pro- 
moted ! 1  don't  realize  it  yet ! 1  read  it  twenty 

times ! 1  couldn't  believe  it Good  Lord,  it's  so ! 

It's  so;     I  am  promoted!    (Laughing.)     I  don't 

know 1  feel  so  queer the  ground  turns  around 

Melchior,   Melchior,   can   you   realize   what   I've 

gone  through  ? 

Hans  Rilow. 

I  congratulate  you,  Moritz Only  be  happy  that 

you  got  away  with  it ! 

Mobitz. 

You  don't  know,  Hans,  you  can't  guess,  what  depends 
on  it.  For  three  weeks  I've  slunk  past  that  door  as  if 
it  were  a  hellish  abyss.     To-day  I  saw  it  was  ajar.     I 

believe  that  if  some  one  had  offered  me  a  million 

nothing,  oh  nothing,  could  have  held  me. 1  stood  in 

the  middle  of  the  room, 1  opened  the  report  book 

ran  over  the  leaves found and  during  all 

that  time 1  shudder 


Melchiok. 
-During  all  that  time  ? 


OF  SPRING.  63 

Moritz. 

During  all  that  time  the  door  behind  me  stood  wide 

open.     How  I  got  out bow  I  came  down  the  steps, 

I  don't  know. 

Hans  Rilow. 
Is  Ernest  Robe!  promoted,  too  ? 

Mobitz. 

Oh,  certainly,  Hans,  certainly! Ernest  Röbel  is 

promoted,  too. 

Robert. 

Then  you  can't  have  read  correctly.  Counting  in 
the  dunce's  stool,  we,  with  you  and  Robert,  make  sixty- 
one,  and  the  upper  class-room  cannot  accommodate  more 
than  sixty. 

Mobitz. 

I  read  it  right  enough.  Ernest  Röbel  is  given  as  high 
a  rating  as  I  am — both  of  us  have  conditions  to  work 

off. During  the  first  quarter  it  will  be  seen  which 

of  us  has  to  make  room  for  the  other.    Poor  Röbel ! 

Heaven  knows,  I'm  not  afraid  of  myself  any  longer. 
I've  looked  into  it  too  deeply  this  time  for  that. 

Otto. 
I  bet  five  marks  that  you  lose  your  place. 


54  THE   AWAKE:N^INa 

Moritz. 

You  haven't  anything.     I  won't  rob  you. ^Lord, 

but  I'll  grind  from  to-day  on ! 1  can  say  so  now 

whether  you  believe  it  or  not It's  all  the  same  now 

1 1  know  how  true  it  is ;  if  I  hadn't  been  pro 

moted  I  would  have  shot  myself. 

Robert. 
Boaster ! 

George. 
Coward ! 

Otto. 
I'd  like  to  see  you  shoot  yourself ! 

Laemmermeier. 
Box  his  ears. 

Melchior. 
(Gives  him  a  cuff.) 

Come,  Moritz,  let's  go  to  the  forester's  house! 

George. 
Do  you  believe  his  nonsense  ? 

Melchior. 

What's   that   to   you?      Let   them  chatter,   Moritz! 
Come  on,  let's  go  to  town. 

(Professors  Hunger gurt  and  KnocKenbrucJi  pass  by.) 


OF   SPRING.  55 

Kkochenbeuch. 

It  is  inexplicable  to  me,  mj  dear  colleague,  how  tlie 
best  of  my  scholars  can  .fail  the  very  worst  of  all. 

HUNGEKGUET. 

To  me,  also,  professor. 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

A  sunny  afternoon — Melchior  and  Wendla  meet  each 
other  in  the  wood, 

Melchior. 

Is  it  really  you,  Wendla  ? What  are  you  doing  up 

here  all  alone  ? For  three  hours  IVe  been  going  from 

one  side  of  the  wood  to  the  other  without  meeting  a  soul, 
and  now  you  come  upon  me  out  of  the  thickest  part  of  it ! 


Yes,  it's  I. 


Wej^dla. 


Melchior. 


If  I  didn't  know  you  were  Wendla  Bergmann,  I 
would  take  you  for  a  dryad,  fallen  out  of  your  tree. 

Wendla. 

No,  no,  I  am  Wendla  Bergmann. ^How  did  you 

come  here  ? 


56  THE   AWAKENING 

Melchiob. 
I  followed  my  thoughts. 

Wendla. 

I'm  hunting  Waldmeister.*  Mamma  wants  to  make 
Maybowl.  At  first  she  intended  coming  along  herself, 
but  at  the  last  moment  Aunt  Bauer  dropped  in,  and 
she  doesn't  like  to  climb. So  I  came  by  myself. 

Melchiob. 
Have  you  found  your  Waldmeister? 

Wendla. 

A  whole  basketful.  Down  there  under  the  beach  it 
grows  as  thick  as  meadow  clover.  Just  now  I  am 
looking  for  a  way  out.  I  seem  to  have  lost  the  path. 
Can  you  tell  me  what  time  it  is  ? 

Melchior. 

Just  a  little  after  half-past  four.  When  do  tkey  ex- 
pect you  ? 

Wendla. 

I  thought  it  was  later.  I  lay  dreaming  for  a  long 
time  on  the  moss  by  the  brook.  The  time  went  by  so 
fast,  I  feared  it  was  already  evening. 

*  An  aromatic  herb,  used  in  preparing  a  beverage  drunk  in  Spring  time. 


OF  SPRING.  67 

Melchior. 

If  nobody  is  waiting  for  you,  let  ns  linger  here  a 
little  longer.  Under  the  oak  tree  there  is  my  favorite 
place.  If  one  leans  one's  head  back  against  the  trunk 
and  looks  up  through  the  branches  at  the  sky,  one  be' 
comes  hypnotized.     The  ground  is  warm  yet  from  th^ 

morning  sun. For  weeks  IVe  been  wanting  to  ask 

you  something,  Wendla. 

Wendla. 
But  I  must  be  home  at  five  o'clock. 

Melchioe. 

We'll  go  together,  then.  I'll  take  the  basket  and  we'll 
beat  our  way  through  the  bushes,  so  that  in  ten  minutes 

we'll  be  on  the  bridge ! When  one  lies  so,  with  one's 

head  in  one's  hand,  one  has  the  strangest  thoughts. 

{Both  lie  down  under  the  oaJc.)^ 

Wendla. 
What  do  you  want  to  ask  me,  Melchior  ? 

Melchior. 

PvB  heard,  Wendla,  that  you  visit  poor  people's 
houses.  You  take  them  food  and  clothes  and  money 
also.  Do  you  do  that  of  your  own  free  will,  or  does 
your  mother  send  you  ? 


68  THE  AWAKENING 

Wendla. 

Mother  sends  me  mostly.  They  are  families  of  day 
laborers  that  have  too  many  children.  Often  the 
husband  can't  find  work  and  then  they  freeze  and  go 
hungry.  We  have  a  lot  of  things  which  were  laid 
away  long  ago  in  our  closets  and  wardrobes  and  which 
are  no  longer  needed. But  how  did  you  know  it  ? 

Melchioe. 

Do  you  go  willingly  or  unwillingly,  when  your 
mother  sends  you? 

Wendla. 
Oh,  I  love  to  go ! ^How  can  you  ask  ? 

Melchior. 

But  the  children  are  dirty,  the  women  are  sick,  the 
houses  are  full  of  filth,  the  men  hate  you  because  you 

don't  work 

Wendla. 

That's  not  true,  Melchior.  And  if  it  were  true,  I'd 
go  just  the  same! 

Melchior. 

Why  just  the  same,  Wendla  ? 

Wendla. 

I'd  go  just  the  same!  It  would  make  me  all  the 
happier  to  be  able  to  help  them. 


OF  SPRING.  69 

Melchior. 

Then  you  go  to  see  the  poor  because  it  makes  you 
happy  ? 

Wendla. 
I  go  to  them  because  they  are  poor. 

Melchior. 
But  if  it  weren't  a  pleasure  to  you,  you  wouldn't  go  ? 

Wendla. 
Can  I  help  it  that  it  makes  me  happy  ? 

Melchior. 

And  because  of  it  you  expect  to  go  to  heaven !  So  it's 
true,  then,  that  which  has  given  me  no  peace  for  a  month 

past! Can  the  covetous  man  help  it  that  it  is  no 

pleasure  to  him  to  go  to  see  dirty  sick  children  ? 

Wendla. 
Oh,  surely  it  would  give  you  the  greatest  pleasure ! 

Melchior. 

And,  therefore,  he  must  suffer  everlasting  death, 
ril  write  a  paper  on  it  and  send  it  to  Pastor  Kahlbauch. 
He  is  the  cause  of  it.     Why  did  he  fool  us  with  the 


60  THE   AWAKENING 

joy  of  good  works. If  he  can't  answer  me  I  won't  go 

to  Sunday-school  any  longer  and  won't  let  them  con- 
firm me. 

Wendla. 

Why  don't  you  tell  your  trouble  to  your  dear  parents  1 
Let  yourself  be  confirmed,  it  won't  cost  you  your  head. 
If  it  weren't  for  our  horrid  white  dresses  and  your 
long  trousers  one  might  be  more  spiritual. 

Melchior. 

There  is  no  sacrifice !  There  is  no  self-denial !  I  see 
the  good  rejoice  in  their  hearts,  I  see  the  evil  tremble 

and  groan 1  see  you,  Wendla  Bergmann,  shake  your 

locks  and  laugh  while  I  am  as  melancholy  as  an  out- 
law.  What  did  you  dream,  Wendla,  when  you  lay  in 

the  grass  by  the  brook? 

Wendla. 
Foolishness nonsense. 


Melchior. 
With  your  eyes  open? 

Wendla. 

I  dreamed  I  was  a  poor,  poor  beggar  girl,  who  was 
tamed  out  in  the  street  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
I  had  to  beg  the  whole  long  day  in  storm  and  bad 
weather  from   rough,   hard-hearted   people.      When   I 


OF  SPRI:NG.  61 

came  home  at  night,  shivering  from  hunger  and  cold, 
and  without  as  much  money  as  my  father  coveted,  then 
I  was  beaten beaten 

Melchior. 

I  know  that,  Wendla.  You  have  the  silly  children's 
stories  to  thank  for  that.  Believe  me,  such  brutal  men 
exist  no  longer. 

Weio^la. 

Oh  yes,  Melchior,  you're  mistaken.  Martha  Bessel 
is  beaten  night  after  night,  so  that  one  sees  the  marks 
of  it  the  next  day.  Oh,  but  it  must  hurt !  It  makes  one 
boiling  hot  when  she  tells  it.  I'm  so  frightfully  sorry 
for  her  that  I  often  cry  over  it  in  my  pillows  at  night. 
For  months  I've  been  thinking  how  one  can  help 
her. — — I'd  take  her  place  for  eight  days  with  pleasure. 

Melchioe. 

One  should  complain  of  ker  father  at  once.  Then 
the  child  would  be  taken  away  from  him. 

Weistdla. 
I,  Melchior,  have  never  been  beaten  in  my  life- 


not  a  single  time.    I  can  hardly  imagine  what  it  means 
to  be  beaten.    I  have  beaten  myself  in  order  to  see  how 

one  felt  then  in  one's  heart It  must  be  a  gruesome 

feeling. 

Melchioe. 

I  don't  believe  a  child  is  better  for  it. 


62  THE   AWAKEm:^rG 

Wendla. 

Better  for  what  ? 

Melchiok. 


For  being  beaten. 


Wendla. 


With  this  switch,  for  instance!     Ha!  but  it's  tough 
and  thin. 

Melchioe. 
That  would  draw  blood ! 

"Wendi^a. 

Would  jou  like  to  beat  me  with  it  once  ? 

Melchioe. 
Who? 

Weitola. 
Me. 

Melchioe. 
What's  the  matter  with  you,  Wendla  ? 

Wendla. 
What  might  happen? 

Melchior. 
Oh,  be  quiet !    I  won't  beat  you. 


OF  SPRING.  63 

\yENDLA. 

ISTot  if  I  allow  you  ? 

Melchioe. 

No,  girl!  ' 

Wendla. 

iq'ot  even  if  I  ask  you,  Melchior  ? 

Melchioe. 
A.re  you  out  of  your  senses  ?    ^ 

Wendla. 
IVe  never  been  beaten  in  my  life ! 

Melchior. 

If  you  can  ask  for  such  a  thing 

Wendla. 

Please please 

Melchioe. 
I'll  teach  you  to  say  please !     {He  hits  her,) 

Wendi.a. 
Oh,  Lord,  I  dont  notice  it  in  the  least! 

Melchioe. 
I  believe  you through  all  your  skirts 


64  THE   AWAKEXI:N^G 

Wendla. 
Tken  strike  me  on  mj  legs ! 

Melchiob. 
"Wendla!     {He  strikes  her  harder,) 

Wekdla. 
You're  stroking  me !     You're  stroking  me ! 

Melchior. 

Wait,  witch,  I'll  flog  Satan  out  of  you ! 

{He  ilivows  the  sv)itch  aside  and  heats  her  with  his 
fists  so  that  she  breaks  out  ivith  a  frightful  cry.  He 
pays  no  attention  to  this,  hut  falls  upon  her  as  if  he 
were  crazy,  vjhile  the  tears  stream  heavily  down  his 
cheeks.  Presently  he  springs  away,  holds  hoth  hands  to 
his  temples  and  rushes  into  the  depths  of  the  wood  cry- 
ing out  in  anguish  of  soul.) 


ACT  I! 


SCENE  EIEST. 

Evening  in  MelcMors  study.  The  window  is  open, 
a  lamp  hums  on  the  table, — Melchior  and  Moritz  on  the 
divan. 

Mobitz. 


"Now  Tm.  quite  gay  again,  only  a  little  bit  excited.- 


But  during  the  Greek  lesson  I  slept  like  the  besotted 
Polyphemus.    I'm  astonished  that  the  pronunciation  of 

the  ancient  tongue  doesn't  give  me  the  earache. To- 

dav  I  was  within  a   hair  of  beins:  late Mv  first 

thought  on  waking  was  of  the  verbs  in  fiL Himmel — 

Herrgott — Teufel — Donnerwetter,  during  breakfast  and 

all  along  the  road  I  conjugated  until  I  saw  green. 

I  must  have  popped  off  to  sleep  shortly  after  three.  My 
pen  made  a  blot  in  the  book.  The  lamp  was  smoking 
when  Mathilde  woke  me ;  the  blackbirds  in  the  elder 

bushes  under  the  window  were  chirping  so  happily 

and  I  felt  so  inexpressibly  melancholy.     I  put  on  my 

collar  and  passed  the  brush  through  my  hair. One 

feels  it  when  one  imposes  upon  nature. 


Melchior, 

May  I  roll  you  a  cigarette  ? 

67 


68  THE   AWAKENING 

Mobitz. 

Thanks,  I  don't  smoke. If  it  only  keeps  on  this 

way!     I  will  work  and  work  until  my  eyes  fall  out  of 

mv  head. Ernest  Röbel  has  failed  three  times  since 

vacation;  three  times  in  Greek,  twice  with  Knochen- 
bruch;  the  last  time  in  the  history  of  literature.  I 
have  been  first  five  times  in  this  lamentable  conflict,  and 

from  to-day  it  does  not  bother  me ! Köbel  will  not 

shoot  himself.  Röbel  has  no  parents  who  sacrifice 
everything  for  him.  If  he  wants  he  can  become  a  sol- 
dier, a  cowboy  or  a  sailor.  If  I  fail,  my  father  will  feel 
the  blow  and  Mamma  will  land  in  the  madhouse.  One 
can't  live  through  a  thing  like  that ! Before  the  ex- 
amination I  begged  God  to  give  me  consumption  that 
the  cup  might  pass  me  by  untouched.  He  passed  me  by, 
though  to-day  His  aureole  shines  in  the  distance,  so  that 

I  dare  not  lift  my  eyes  by  night  or  day. j^ow  that 

I  have  grasped  the  bar  I  shall  swing  up  on  it.  The 
natural  consequence  will  be  that  I  shall  break  my  neck 
if  I  fall. 

Melchior. 

Life  is  a  worthless  commonplace.  It  wouldn't  have 
been  a  bad  idea  if  I  had  hanged  myself  in  the  cradle. 
. Why  doesn  t  Mamma  come-with  the  tea ! 

Mobitz. 

Your  tea  will  do  me  good,  Melchior ! I'm  shiver- 
ing.    I  feel  so  strangely  spiritualized.     Touch  me  once, 

please.    I  see, — I  hear, — I  feel,  much  more  acutely 

and  yet  everything  seems  like  a  dream oh,  so  bar- 


OF  SPRING.  69 

monious. How  still  the  garden  stretches  out  there  in 

the  moonlight,  so  still,  so  deep,  as  if  it  extended  to 
eternity.  From  out  the  bushes  step  indefinable  fig- 
ures that  slip  away  in  breathless  officiousness  through 
the  clearings  and  then  vanish  in  the  twilight  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  a  counsel  were  to  be  keld  under  the  chestnut 
tree. Shall  we  go  down  there,  Melchior  ? 

Melchioe. 
Let's  wait  until  we  have  drunk  our  tea. 

Mobitz. 

The  leaves  whisper  so  busily. It's  just  as  if  I 

heard  my  dead  grandmother  telling  me  the  story  of  the 
''Queen  Without  a  Head."  There  was  once  a  wonder- 
fully beautiful  Queen,  beautiful  as  the  sun,  more  beau- 
tiful than  all  the  maidens  in  the  country.  Only,  un- 
fortunately, she  came  into  the  world  without  a  head. 
She  could  not  eat,  not  drink,  not  kiss.  She  could  only 
communicate  with  ker  courtiers  by  using  her  soft  little 
hand.  With  her  dainty  feet  she  stamped  declarations 
of  war  and  orders  for  executions.  Then,  one  day,  she 
was  besieged  by  a  King,  who,  by  chance,  had  two  heads, 
which,  year  in  and  year  out,  disputed  with  one  another 
so  violently  that  neither  could  get  a  word  in  edgewise. 
The  Court  Conjurer-in-chief  took  off  the  smallest  of 
these  heads  and  set  it  upon  the  Queen's  body.  And, 
behold,  it  became  her  extraordinarily  well !  Therefore, 
the  King  and  the  Queen  were  married,  and  the  two 
heads  disputed  no  longer,  but  kissed  each  other  upon 
tke  brow,  the  cheeks  and  the  moutk,  and  lived  there- 


70  THE  AWAKENIITG 

after  tlirough  long,  long  years  of  joy  and  peace. 
Delectable  nonsense!     Since  vacation  I  can't  get  the 
headless  Queen  out  of  my  mind.     When  I  see  a  pretty 

girl,  I  see  her  without  a  head and  then  presently,  I, 

myself  appear  to  be  the  headless  Queen. It  is  pos- 
sible that*-someone  may  be  set  over  me  yet. 

{Frau  Gabor  comes  in  with  the  deaming  tea,  which 
she  sets  before  Melchior  and  Moritz  on  the  table.) 

Feau  Gaboe. 

Here,  children,  here's  a  mouthful  for  you.     Good- 
evening,  Herr  Stiefel,  how  are  you? 

MOEITZ. 

Thank  you,  Frau  Gabor. I'm  watching  the  dance 

down  there. 

Feau  Gaboe. 
But  you  don't  look  very  good don't  you  feel  well  1 

Mobitz. 

It's  not  worth  mentioning.     I  went  to  bed  somewhat 
too  late  last  night. 

Melchioe. 
Only  think,  ke  worked  all  through  the  night. 

Feau  Gaboe. 
You  shouldn't  do  such  things,  Herr  Stiefel.     You 


OF  SPRING.  n 

ought  to  take  care  of  yourself.  Think  of  your  kealth. 
Don't  set  your  school  above  your  health.  Take  plenty 
of  walks  in  the  fresh  air.  At  your  age,  that  is  more 
important  than  a  correct  use  of  middle  high  Grerman. 

MOEITZ. 

I  will  go  walking.     You  are  right.     One  can  be  in- 
dustrious while  one  is  taking  a  walk.     Why  didn't  I 

think  of  that  myself ! The  written  work  I  shall  still 

have  to  do  at  kome. 

Melchiob. 

You  can  do  your  writing  here ;  that  will  make  it 

easier  for  both  of  us. You  know,  Mamma,  that  Max 

von  Trenk  has  been  down  with  brain  fever ! To-day 

at  noon  Hans  Rilow  came  from  von  Trenk's  deathbed 
to  announce  to  Hector  Sonnenstich  that  von  Trenk 
had  just  died  in  his  presence.  "Indeed  ?"  said  Sonnen- 
stich, "haven't  you  two  hours  from  last  week  to  make 
up?  Here  is  the  beadle's  report.  See  that  the  matter 
is  cleared  up  once  for  all !  The  whole  class  will  attend 
the  burial." Hans  was  struck  dumb. 

Frau  Gaboe. 
What  book  is  that  you  have,  Melchior? 

Melchioe. 
"Faust." 

Feau  Gabob. 

Have  you  read  it  yet? 


72  THE  AWAKENING 

Melchiob. 
Not  to  the  end. 

Mobitz. 
We're  just  at  the  Walpurgisnacht. 

Feau  Gabob. 

If  I  were  you  I  should  have  waited  for  one  or  two 
years. 

Melchiob. 

I  know  of  no  book,  Mamma,  in  which  I  have  found  so 
much  beauty.    Why  shouldn't  I  read  it? 

Feau  Gabob. 
Because  you  can't  understand  it. 

Melchiob. 

You  can't  know  that,  Mamma.  I  feel  very  well  that  I 
am  not  yet  able  to  grasp  the  work  in  its  entirety 

Mobitz. 

We  always  read  together;  that  helps  our  understand- 
ing wonderfully. 

Feau  Gabob. 

You  are  old  enough,  Melchior,  to  be  able  to  know 
what  is  good  and  what  is  bad  for  you.  Do  what  you 
think  best   for   yourself.      I   should   be   the   first   to 


OF  SPRING.  73 

acknowledge  your  right  in  this  respect,  because  you  have 
never  given  me  a  reason  to  have  to  deny  you  anything. 
I  only  want  to  warn  you  that  even  the  best  can  do  one 
harm  when  one  isn't  ripe  enough  in  years  to  receive  it 

properly. 1  would  rather  put  my  trust  in  you  than 

in  conventional  educational  methods. If  you  need 

anything,  children,  you,  Melchior,  come  up  and  call  me. 
I  shall  be  in  my  bedroom. 

(Exit.) 

Mobitz. 
Your  Mamma  means  the  story  of  Gretchen. 

Melchior. 
Weren't  we  discussing  it  just  a  moment  ago ! 

Mobitz. 
Faust  himself  cannot  have  deserted  her  in  cold  blood ! 

Melchioe. 

The  masterpiece  does  not  end  with  this  infamous 

action! Faust   might    have    promised    tfee    maiden 

marriage,  he  might  have  forsaken  her  afterwards,  but 
in  my  eyes  he  would  have  been  not  a  kair  less  worthy  of 
punishment.     Gretchen  might  have  died  of  a  broken 

heart  for  all  I  care. One  sees  how  this  attracts  the 

eyes  continually;  one  might  think  that  the  whole  world 
turned  on  sex  !* 

♦Man  mochte    glauben,  die  ganze  "Welt  drehe  sich  um  P tt.nd 

V 1 " 


74  THE  AWAKENING 


Mobitz. 


Tg  be  frank  with  you,  Melchior,  I  have  almost  the 

same  feeling  since  I  read  your  explanation. It  fell 

at  my  feet  during  the  first  vacation  days.  I  was 
startled.  I  fastened  the  door  and  flew  through  the 
flaming  lines  as  a  frightened  owl  flies  through  a  burn- 
ing wood 1  believe  I  read  most  of  it  with  my  eyes 

shut.  Your  explanation  brought  up  a  host  of  dim  rec- 
ollections, which  affected  me  as  a  song  of  his  childhood 
affects  a  man  on  his  deathbed  when  heard  from  the 
lips  of  another.  I  felt  the  most  vehement  pity  over 
what  you  wrote  about  maidens.  I  shall  never  lose  that 
sensation.  Believe  me,  Melchior,  to  suffer  a  wrong  is 
sweeter  than  to  do  a  wrong.  To  be  overcome  by  such  a 
sweet  wrong  and  still  be  blameless  seems  to  me  the  ful- 
ness of  earthly  bliss. 

Melchiok. 
I  don't  want  my  bliss  as  alms ! 

Mobitz. 
But  why  not? 

Mei^chiob. 

I  don't  want  anything  for  which  I  don't  have  to  fight ! 

Mobitz. 

Is  it  enjoyable  then,  Melchior? The  maiden's  en- 
joyment is  as  that  of  the  holy  gods.  The  maiden  con- 
trols herself,  thanks  to  her  self-denial.     She  keeps  her- 


OF  SPRmG.  76 

self  free  from  every  bitterness  until  the  last  moment,  in 
order  that  she  may  see  the  heavens  open  over  her  in  an 
instant.  The  maiden  fears  hell  even  at  the  moment 
that  she  perceives  a  blooming  paradise.  Her  feeling  is 
as  pure  as  a  mountain  spring.  Tke  maiden  holds  a 
cup  over  which  no  earthly  breath  has  blown  as  yet;  a 
nectar  chalice,  the  contents  of  which  is  spilled  when  it 

flames    and   flares. The    enjoyment   that   the   man 

finds  in  that,  I  think,  is  insipid  and  flat. 

Melchior. 
You  can  think  what  you  like  about  it,  but  keep  your 
thaughts  to  yourseK 1  don't  like  to  think  about  it. 


SCENE  SECOND. 
A  Dwelling  Room, 

Eeau  Bergmann. 

(Enters  hy  the  center  door.  Her  face  is  beaming. 
She  is  without  a  hat,  wears  a  mantilla  on  her  head  and 
has  a  basket  on  her  arm,) 

Wendla!  Wendla! 

Wendla. 

(Appears  in  petticoats  and  corset  in  the  doorway  to 

the  right.) 

What's  the  matter,  Mother  ? 

Erau  Bergmann. 
You  are  up  already,  child  ?    Now,  that  is  nice  of  you ! 


76  THE   AWAKENING 

Wendla. 
You  have  been  out  already  ? 


Ekau  Bergmann. 

Get    dressed    quickly! You    must    go    down    to 

Ina's  at  once.    You  must  take  her  this  basket ! 


Wendla. 

{Dressing  herself  during  the  folloming  conversation.) 
You  have  been  to  Ina' s  ? — How  is  Ina  ? — Is  she  ever 
going  to  get  better  ? 

Eeau  Beegmann. 

Only  think,  Wendla,  last  night  the  stork  paid  her  a 
visit  and  brought  her  a  little  baby  boy ! 

Wexdla. 

A  little  boy? A  little  boy! Oh,  that's  lovely! 

That's  the  cause  of  that  tedious  influenza ! 


Frau  Bergmann. 
A  fine  little  boy! 

Wendla. 

I  must  see  him,  Mother,    That  makes  me  an  aunt  for 

the  third  time aunt  to  a  little  girl  and  two  little 

boys! 


OF  SPEING.  77 

Frau  Bergmann. 

And  what  little  boys  ! It  always  happens  that  way 

when  one  lives  so  near  the  church  roof ! To-morrow 

will  be  just  two  years  since  she  went  up  the  steps  in  her 
mull  gown. 

Wendig. 

Were  you  there  when  he  brought  him  ? 

Frau  Bergmann. 

He  had  just  flown  away  again. Won't  you  put  on 

a  rose? 

Wendla. 
Why  couldn't  you  have  been  a  little  earlier,  Mother  ? 

Frau  Bergmann. 

I  almost  believe  he  brought  you  something,  too a 

breastpin  or  something. 

Wendla. 
It's  really  a  shame ! 

Frau  Bergmann, 
But,  T  tell  you,  he  brought  you  a  breastpin! 

Wendla. 
I  have  breastpins  enough 


78  THE  AWAK:EOT]N-G 

Fbau  Bekqmann. 
Then  be  happy,  child.    What  do  you  want  besides  ? 

Wendi^a. 

I  would  have  liked  so  much  to  kave  known  wkether 
he  flew  through  the  window  or  down  the  chimney. 

Fratj  Bergmann. 

You  must  ask  Ina.  Ha!  You  must  ask  Ina  tkat, 
dear  heart!  Ina  will  tell  you  that  fast  enough.  Ina 
talked  with  him  for  a  whole  half  hour. 

Wendla. 
I  will  ask  Ina  when  I  get  there. 

Feau  Beegmahtn. 

!N'ow  don't  forget,  sweet  angel!  I'm  interested  my- 
self to  know  if  he  came  in  through  the  window  or  by 
the  chimney. 

Weitdla. 

Or  hadn't  I  better  ask  the  chimney-sweep? The 

chimney-sweep  must  know  best  whether  he  flew  down  the 
chimney  or  not. 

Feau  Bergmantt. 

"Not  the  chimney-sweep,  child;  not  the  chimney- 
sweep.   Wkat  does  the  chimney-sweep  know  about  the 


OF   SPRIIs^G.  79 

stork !     He'd  tell  you  a  lot  of  foolishness  he  didn't  be- 
lieve himself Wha what  are  you  staring  at  down 

there  in  the  street  ? 

Wendla. 

A  man,  Mother, three  times  as  big  as  an  ox ! 

with  feet  like  steamboats ! 

Yrau  Beegmann. 

(Rushing  to  the  window,) 

Impossible !    Impossible ! 

Wexdla. 

{At  the  same  time.) 

He  holds  a  bedslat  under  his  chin  and  fiddles  ^^Die 

Wacht  am  Rhein''  on  it there,  he's  just  turned  the 

comer. 

Feau  Beegmaxx. 

You  are,  and  always  will  be  a  foolish  child! To 

frighten  your  old  simple  mother  that  way! Go  get 

your  hat !     I  wonder  when  you  will  understand  things. 
I've  given  up  hope  of  you. 

Wexdla. 

So  have  I,  Mother  dear,  so  have  T.    It's  a  sad  thing 

about  my  understanding. 1  have  a  sister  who  has 

been  married  for  two  and  a  half  years,  I  myself  have 
been  made  an  aunt  for  the  third  time,  and  I  haven't  the 


80  THE  AWAKEXi:tTG 

least  idea  how  it  all  comes  about. Don't  be  cross, 

Mother  dear,  don't  be  cross !  Whom  in  the  world  should 
I  ask  but  you !  Please  tell  me,  dear  Mother !  Tell  me, 
dear  Mother!  I'm  ashamed  for  myself.  Please, 
Mother,  speak!     Don't  scold  me  for  asking  you  about 

it.     Give  me  an  answer How  does  it  happen? 

How  does  it  all  come  about  ? You  cannot  really  de- 
ceive yourself  that  I,  who  am  fourteen  years  old,  still 
believe  in  the  stork. 

Feau  Bergmann. 

Good  Lord,  child,  but  you  are  peculiar ! Whal 

ideas  you  have ! 1  really  can't  do  that ! 

Wexdla. 

But  why  not,  Mother  ? Why  not  ? It  can't  be 

anything  ugly  if  everybody  is  delighted  over  it ! 

Eeau  Beegmann. 

O O  God  protect  me! 1  deserve Go  get 

dressed,  child,  go  get  dressed ! 

Weii^dla. 

I'll  go And  suppose  your  child  went  and  asked 

the  chimney-sweep  ? 

Prau  Beegmann. 

But  that  would  be  madness ! Come  here,  child, 

come  here,  I'll  tell  you!     I'll  tell  you  everything 


OF  SPRING.  81 

O  Almighty  Goodness! only  not  to-day,  Wendla! 

To-morrow,  the  next  day,  next  week any  time 

you  want,  dear  heart 


Wendla. 


Tell  me  to-day,  Mother ;  tell  me  now !    Right  away ! 
-Now  that  I  have  seen  you  so  frightened  I  can  never 


be  peaceful  until  you  do. 

Feau  Beegmann. 
I  can't  do  it,  Wendla. 

Wendla. 

Oh,  why  can't  you.  Mother  dear! 1  will  kneel 

here  at  your  feet  and  lay  my  head  in  your  lap.  You 
can  cover  my  head  with  your  apron  and  talk  and  talk, 
as  if  you  were  entirely  alone  in  the  room.  I  won't 
move,  I  won't  cry,  I  will  bear  all  patiently,  no  matter 
what  may  come. 

Feau  Beegmann. 

Heaven  knows,   Wendla,  that  I   am  not  to  blame! 

Heaven  knows  it! Come  here  in  God's  name!     I 

will  tell  you,  child,  how  you  came  into  this  world. 

Listen  to  me,  Wendla. 

Wendla. 

{Under  the  apron,) 
I'm  listening. 


82  THE  AWAKENING 

Feau  Beegmann. 

(Extatically). 

But  it's  no  use,  child! 1  can't  justify  it.     I  de- 

serve  to  be  put  into  prison to  have  you  taken  from 

me. 

Wendla. 

Take  heart,  Mother! 

Erau  Bergmann. 

Listen,  tken ! 

Wendla. 

(Trembling  under  the  aprorL), 

OGod!    OGod! 

Feau  Beegmann- 

In  order  to  have  a  child do  you  understand  me, 

Wendla  ? 

Wendla. 

Quick,  Mother,  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer. 

Feau  Beeqmann. 

In  order  to   have   a  child one   must   love — ^the 

man — ^to  whom  one  is  married — ^love  him,  I  tell  you — 
as  one  can  only  love  a  man !  One  must  love  him  so  much 
with  one's  whole  heart,  so — so  that  one  can't  describe 
it!  One  must  love  him,  Wendla,  as  you  at  your  age 
are  still  unable  to  love Now  you  know  it ! 


OF  SPRIXG.  83 

Wendla. 
(Getting  up,) 

Great God in  heaven! 

Frau  Bergmann. 
Now  you  know  wkat  an  ordeal  awaits  you  1 

Wendla. 
'And  that  is  all  ? 

Feau  Beegmanit. 

'As  true  as  God  helps  me  I Take  your  basket  now 

and  go  to  Ina.    You  will  get  chocolate  and  cakes  there. 

. Come,   let's  look  you   over,   the  laced   shoes,   the 

silk  gloves,  the  sailor  blouse,  the  rose  in  your  hair — 
your  dress  is  really  becoming  much  too  short  for  you, 
Wendla ! 

Wendla. 
Did  you  get  meat  for  lunch,  Mother? 

Featj  Bergmann. 

The  Good  God  protect  and  bless  you 1  will  find 

an  opportunity  to  add  a  handbreadth  of  flounces  to  the 
bottom. 


84  THE   AWAKENING 

SCENE  THIED. 

BLä.ns  Rilow. 

{With  a  light  in  his  hand,  fastens  the  door  behind  him 
and  opens  the  lid.) 

'^Have  you  prayed  to-night,  Desdemona  ?"  (He  takes 
a  reproduction  of  the  VeniLS  of  Palma  Vecchio  from 

his  hosom.) Thou  wilt  not  appear  to  me  after  the 

Our  Father,  darling, as  in  that  moment  of  antici- 
pated bliss  when  I  saw  thee  contemplatively  expectant  of 
someone's  coming,  lying  in  Jonathan  Schlesinger's  shop 

window just  as  enticing  as  thou  art  now,  with  these 

supple  limbs,  these  softly  arched  hips,  these  plump, 

youthful  breasts. Oh  how  intoxicated  with  joy  the 

great  master  must  have  been  when  his  glance  strayed 
over  the  fourteen-year-old  original  stretched  out  upon 
the  divan! 

Wilt  thou  not  visit  me  for  awhile  in  my  dreams  ?  I 
will  receive  thee  with  widely  open  arms  and  will  kiss 
thee  until  thou  art  breathless.  Thou  drawest  me  on- 
ward as  the  enchanted  princess  in  her  deserted  castle. 
Portals  and  doors  open  themselves  as  if  by  an  unseen 
hand,  while  the  fountain  in  the  park  below  begins  to 
splash  joyously 

*^It  is  the  cause ! It  is  the  cause !"    The  frightful 

beating  in  my  breast  shows  thee  that  I  do  not  murder 
thee  from  frivolous  emotion.  The  thought  of  my  lonely 
nights  is  strangling  me.  I  swear  to  thee,  child,  on  my 
soul,  that  it  is  not  satiety  which  rules  me.  Who  could 
ever  boast  of  being  satiated  of  thee ! 


OF   SPRING.  85 

But  thou  suckest  the  marrow  from  mj  bones,  thou 
bendest  mj  back,  thou  robbest  mv  youthful  eyes  of  their 

last    spark    of    brilliancy. Thou    art    so    arrogant 

toward  me  in  thy  inhuman  modesty,  so  galling  with  thy 

immovable  limbs ! Thou  or  I !    And  I  have  won  the 

victory. 

Suppose  I  count  them all  those  who  sleep,  with 

whom  I  have  fought  the  same  battle  here :    Psyche 

by  Thimiann — another  bequest  from  the  spindle-shanked 
Mademoiselle  Angelique,  that  rattlesnake  in  the  para- 
dise of  my  childhood;  lo  by  Cor  regio;  Galathea  by 
Lossow ;  then  a  Cupid  by  Bouguereau ;  Ada  by  J.  van 
Beers — that  Ada  whom  I  had  to  abduct  from  a  secret 
drawer  in  Papa's  secretary  in  order  to  incorporate  in 
my  harem ;  a  trembling,  modest  Leda  by  ^^^lakart,  whom 
I  found  by  chance  among  my  brother's  college  books 
seven,  thou  blooming  candidate  for  death,  have  pre- 
ceded thee  upon  this  path  to  Tartarus.  Let  that  be  a 
consolation  unto  thee,  and  seek  not  to  increase  my  tor- 
ments at  this  enormity  by  that  fleeting  look. 

Thou  diest  not  for  thy  sins,  thou  diest  on  account  of 

mine ! As   protection   against   myself   I  go  to  my 

seventh  wife-murder  with  a  bleeding  heart.  There  is 
something  tragic  in  the  role  of  Bluebeard.  I  believe 
the  combined  sufferings  of  his  murdered  wives  did  not 
equal  the  torments  he  underwent  each  time  he  strangled 
one  of  them. 

But  my  thoughts  will  become  more  peaceful,  my  body 
will  strengthen  itself,  when  thou,  thou  little  devil,  re- 
sidest  no  longer  in  the  red  satin  padding  of  my  jewel 
case.  In  place  of  thee,  I  will  indulge  in  wanton  joy- 
ousnesa  with  Bodenhausen's  Lurlei  or  Linger's   For- 


86  THE  AWAKENING 

Baken  One,  or  Defregger's  Loni — so  I  should  be  all  the 
quicker !  But  a  quarter  of  a  year  more,  perhaps  thy 
unveiled  charms,  sweet  soul,  would  begin  to  consume 
my  poor  head  as  the  sun  does  a  pat  of  butter.  It  is  high 
time  to  declare  the  divorce  from  bed  and  board. 

Brrr!     I  feel  a  Heliogablus  within  me?     Moritura 
me  salutat !    Maiden,  maiden,  why  dost  thou  press  thy 

knees  together  ? Why  now  of  all  times  ? In  face 

of  the  inscrutable  eternity  ? A  movement  and  I  will 

spare  thy  life ! A  womanly  emotion,  a  sign  of  pas- 
sion, of  sympathy,  maiden! 1  wiU  frame  thee  in 

gold,   and  hang  thee  over  my  bed!     Doest  thou  not 

guess  that  only  thy  chastity  begets  my  debauchery  ? 

.Woe,  woe,  unto  the  inhuman  ones! 

One  always  perceives  that  they  received  an  exemp- 
lary education It  is  just  so  with  me. 

"Have  you  prayed  to-night,  Desdemona?" 

My  heart,  contracts, madness ! St.  Agnes  also 

died  for  her  reserve  and  was  not  half  as  naked  as  thou! 

Another  kiss  upon  thy  blooming  body upon  thy 

childish  swelling  breast — upon  thy  sweetly  rounded — 

thy  cruel  knees 

"It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul, 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars ! 
It  is  the  cause !" 

(The  picture  falls  into  the  depths,  he  shuts  the  lid.) 


OF  SPKING.  S7 


FOUKTH  SCE:N^E. 

A  haymow,    Melchior  lies  on  his  hoch  in  the  fresh  hay. 
Wendla  comes  up  the  ladder, 

Wendla. 

Here's  where  youVe  hid  yourself? They're  all 

hunting  for  you.     The  wagon  is  outside  again.     You 
must  help.    There's  a  storm  coming  up. 

Melchioe. 
Go  away  from  me !    Go  away  from  me ! 

Wendla. 

What's  the  matter  with  you  ? Wky  are  you  hiding 

your  face  ? 

Melchior. 

Out !  out !  I'll  throw  you  down  on  the  floor  helow. 

Wendla. 

^N'ow  for  certain  I'm  not  goinsr. — (Kneels  down  hy 
him.)  Why  won't  you  come  out  with  me  into  the 
meadow,  Melchior  ? Here  it  is  hot  and  dark.  Sup- 
pose we  do  get  wet  to  the  skin,  what  difference  will  that 
make  to  us ! 

Melchior. 

The  hay  smells  so  fine. The  sky  outside  must  be 

as  black  as  a  pall 1  only  see  the  brilliant  poppy  on 

your  breast and  I  hear  your  heart  beating 


88  THE  AWAKENIi^G 

Wendla. 
Don't  kiss  me,  Melckior! Don't  kiss  me  I 

Melchior. 

Your  heart 1  hear  beating 

Wendla. 
People  love when  they  kiss Don't,  don't! 

Melchior. 

Oh,  believe  me,  there's  no  such  thing  as  love !    Every- 
thing is  selfishness,  everything  is  egotism! 1  love 

you  aa  little  as  you  love  me. 

Wendla. 
Don't don't,  Melchior! 


Melchior. 

Wendla ! 

Wendla. 

Oh,  Melchior! Don't,  don't- 


OF  SPKING.  89 

FIFTH  SCEXE. 

Frau  Gabor. 
(Sits  writing.) 

Dear  Herr  Stiefel: — After  twenty-four  hours  of  con- 
sideration and  reconsideration  of  all  you  have  written 
me,  I  take  up  my  pen  with  a  heavy  heart.  I  cannot 
furnish  you  with  the  necessary  amount  for  the  voyage 
to  America — I  give  you  my  word  of  honor.  In  the 
first  place,  I  have  not  that  much  to  my  credit,  and  in 
the  second  place,  if  I  had,  it  would  be  the  greatest  sin 
imaginable  for  me  to  put  into  your  hands  the  means  of 
accomplishing  such  an  ill-considered  measure.  You 
will  be  doing  me  a  bitter  wrong,  Herr  Stiefel,  if  you  see 
a  sign  of  lack  of  love  in  my  refusal.  On  the  contrary, 
it  would  be  the  greatest  neglect  of  my  duty  as  your 
motherly  friend  were  I  to  allow  myself  to  be  affected 
by  your  temporary  lack  of  determination,  so  that  I  also 
lost  my  head  and  blindly  followed  my  first  fleeting  im- 
pulse. I  am  very  ready — in  case  you  desire  it — to 
write  to  your  parents.  I  should  seek  to  convince  your 
parents  that  you  have  done  what  you  could  during  this 
quarter,  that  you  have  exhausted  your  strength,  that  a 
rigorous  judgment  of  your  case  would  not  only  be  inad- 
visable, but  might  be  in  the  greatest  degree  prejudicial 
to  vour  mental  and  bodilv  health. 

That  you  imply  a  threat  to  take  your  own  life  in  case 
flight  is  impossible  for  you,  to  speak  plainly,  has  some- 
what surprised  me.  l^o  matter  how  undeserving  is  a 
misfortune,  Herr  Stiefel,  one  should  never  choose  im- 
proper means  to  escape  it.     The  way  in  which  you,  to 


90  THE   AWAKEIs'ING 

whom  I  have  always  done  only  good,  want  to  make 
me  responsible  for  a  possible  frightful  action  on  your 
part,  has  something  about  it  which,  in  the  eyes  of  an 
evil-thinking  person,  might  be  misconstrued  very  easily. 
I  must  confess  that  this  outbreak  of  yours — you  who 
know  so  well  what  one  owes  to  oneself — is  the  last  thing 
for  which  I  was  prepared.  However,  I  cherish  the  strong 
conviction  that  3'ou  are  laboring  yet  too  much  under  the 
shock  of  your  first  fright  to  be  able  to  understand  com- 
pletely your  action. 

And,  therefore,  I  hope  with  confidence  that  these 
words  of  mine  will  find  you  already  in  better  spirits. 
Take  up  the  matter  as  it  stands.  In  my  opinion  it  is 
unwise  to  judge  a  young  man  by  his  school  record. 
We  have  too  many  examples  of  bad  students  becoming 
distinguished  men,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  of  brilliant 
students  not  being  at  all  remarkable  in  life.  At  any 
rate,  I  can  assure  you  that  your  misfortune,  as  far  as 
it  lies  with  me,  shall  make  no  difference  in  your  asso- 
ciation with  Melchior.  On  the  contrary,  it  will  afford 
me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  see  my  son  going  with  a 
young  man  who,  let  the  world  judge  him  as  it  will,  is 
able  to  win  my  fullest  sympathy. 

And,  therefore,  hold  your  head  high,  Herr  Stiefel! 

Such  a  crisis  as  this  comes  to  all  of  us  and  will 

soon  be  surmounted.  If  all  of  us  had  recourse  to  dag- 
ger or  poison  in  such  cases,  there  would  soon  be  no  men 
left  in  the  world.  Let  me  hear  from  you  right  soon 
again,  and  accept  the  heartfelt  greetings  of  your  un- 
changed 

Motherly  friend, 

Fanitt  G. 


of  spring.  §1 

sce:n^e  sixth. 

Bergmanns  garden  in  the  morning  swrdighL 

Wendla. 

Why  kave  you  slipped  out  of  the  room  ? To  hunt 

violets ! Because  Motker  seems  to  laugh  at  me. 

Why  can't  you  bring  your  lipo  together  any  more  ? 

I  don't  know. Indeed  I  don't  know,  I  can't  find 

words The  path  is  like  a  velvet  carpet,  no  pebbles, 

no  thorns. My  feet  don't  touch  the  ground. Oh, 

how  I  slept  last  night ! 

Here  they  are. 1  become  as  grave  as  a  nun  at 

communion. Sweet  violets ! Peace,  little  mother, 

I  will  put  on  my  long  dress. Oh  God,  if  somebody 

would  come  upon  whose  neck  I  could  fall  and  tell  I 


SCENE  SEVEK 

Evening  twilight.  Light  clouds  in  the  sky.  The 
path  straggles  through  low  hushes  and  coarse  grass. 
The  flow  of  the  stream  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

Mobitz. 

Better  and  better. 1  am  not  fit.    Another  may  be 

able  to  climb  to  the  top.     I  pull  the  door  to  behind  me 

and  step  into  the  open. 1  don't  care  enough  about  it 

to  let  myself  be  turned  bacL 


92  THE  AWAKE:NING 

I  haven't  succeeded  in  forcing  my  way.    How  skall 

I  force  my  way  now ! 1  kave  no  contract  with  God. 

Let  them  make  out  of  the  thing  what  they  will.  I 
have  been  forced. 1  do  not  hold  my  parents  answer- 
able. At  the  same  time,  the  worst  must  fall  upon 
them.  They  were  old  enough  to  know  what  they  were 
doing.     I  wag  a  weakling  when  I  came  into  the  world 

or  else  I  would  have  been  wise  enough  to  become 

another  being.  Why  should  I  be  forced  to  pay  for  the 
fact  that  the  others  were  here  already ! 

I  must  have  fallen  on  my  head If  anybody  makes 

me  a  present  of  a  mad  dog  I'll  give  him  back  a  mad  dog. 
And  if  he  won't  take  back  his  mad  dog,  then  I  am  hu- 
man and 


I  must  have  fallen  on  my  head! 

Man  is  born  by  chance  and  should  not,  after  mature 
consideration It  is  to  shoot  oneself  dead! 

The  weather  at  least  has  shown  itself  considerate. 
The  whole  day  it  looked  like  rain  and  yet  it  has  held  off. 

A  rare  peace  rules  in  nature.     ISTowhere  anything 

dazzling,  exciting.  Heaven  and  earth  are  like  a  trans- 
parent fabric.     And  everything  seems  so  happy.     The 

landscape  is  as  sweet  as  the  melody  of  a  lullaby. 

*^Sleep,  little  prince,  sleep  on,"  as  Fräulein  Snandulia 
sang.  It's  a  shame  she  holds  her  elbows  so  awkwardly ! 
1  danced  for  the  last  time  at  the  Cäcilienfest.  Snan- 
dulia only  dances  A^-ith  good  matches. Her  silk  dress 

was  cut  low  in  front  and  in  the  back.  In  the  back,  down 
to  her  girdle  and  in  the  front  down — unconscionably 

low. She  couldn't  have  worn  a  chemise. 

That  might  be  something  able  to  affect  me  yet.- 


More  than  half  curiosity.- It  must  be  a  wonderful 


OF  SPRING.  93 

sensation a   feeling   as   if  one  were  being  carried 

through  the  rapids 1  should  never  tell  anybody  that 

I    was    experiencing    something    untried    before 1 

would  act  as  if  I  had  done  it  alL — There  is  something 
shameful  in  growing  up  to  be  a  man  witkout  having 

learned  the  chief  function  of  masculinity. You  come 

from  Egypt,  honorable  sir,  and  have  not  seen  the  pyra- 
mids ? ! 

I  will  not  cry  again  to-day.     I  will  not  think  of  my 

burial   again. Melchior  will   lay  a  wreath  on  my 

cofiin.      Pastor    Kalilbauch   will    console   my    parents. 

Rector  Sonnenstich  will  cite  examples  from  history. ■ 

It  is  possible  that  I  shall  not  have  a  tombstone.  I  had 
wanted  a  snow-white  marble  urn  on  a  pedestal  of  black 
syenite. Thank  God,  I  shall  not  miss  them.  Monu- 
ments are  for  the  living,  not  for  the  dead. 

I  should  need  a  whole  year  to  say  farewell  to  every- 
thing in  my  thoughts.  I  will  not  cry  again.  I  am  so 
happy  to  be  able  to  look  back  without  bitterness.  How 
many  beautiful  evenings  I  have  passed  with  Melchior! 

under  the  osiers ;  at  the  forester's  house ;  on  the 

highway  where  the  ß.Ye  lindens  stand;  on  the  Schloss- 
berg, among  the  restful  ruins  of  the  Runenburg. 

When  the  hour  comes,  I  will  think  with  all  my  might  of 
whipped  cream.     T\Tiipped  cream  doesn't  stay  firm.     It 

falls  and  leaves  a  pleasant  after-t-aste. 1  had  thought 

men  were  infinitely  worse.  I  haven't  found  one  who 
didn't  want  to  do  his  best.  Manv  have  suffered  with 
me  on  my  own  account. 

I  wander  to  the  altar  like  the  ancient  Etrurian  youth 
whose  dying  rattle  bought  his  brothers'  prosperity  for 
the  coming  year. 1  experience  bit  by  bit  the  mys- 


94  THE  AWAKENING 

terioua  awe  of  liberation.     I  sob  with  sorrow  over  my 

lot. ^Life  has  turned  its  cold  shoulder  to  me.     I  see 

earnest,  friendly  glances  luring  me  tkere  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  headless  queen,  tke  headless  queen — com- 
passion awaiting  me  with  open  arms Your  com- 
mands concern  minors;  I  carry  my  free  ticket  in  my- 
self.    If  the  shell  sinks,  the  butterfly  flits  from  it ;  the 

delusion  no  longer  holds. You  should  drive  no  mad 

bargain  with  the  swindle!  The  mists  close  in;  life  is 
bitter  on  the  tongue. 

Ilsb. 

{In  torn  clothing,  a  bright  cloth  about  her  head,  grabs 
him  by  the  shoulder  from  behind.) 

What  hare  you  lost  ? 

MOEITZ. 

Use! 

Ilsb. 

What  are  you  hunting  here  % 

Mobitz. 
Why  did  you  frighten  me  so  ? 

Ilse, 
What  are  you  hunting  ? What  har«  yon  loit  ? 

Mobitz. 
Why  did  you  frighten  me  so  fearfully  I 


OF  SPRING.  »5 

Il.SE. 

I'm  coming  from  town. I'm  going  home. 

MORITZ. 

I  don't  know  what  IVe  lost. 

Il.SE. 

Then  seeking  won't  help  you. 

Mobitz. 
Sakerment,  sakerment! 

Ilse. 

I  haven't  been  home  for  four  days. 

Mobitz. 
Eestless  as  a  cat ! 

Il.SE. 

Because  I  have  on  my  dancing  slippers Mother 

will  make  eyes ! Come  to  our  house  with  me  I 

Mobitz. 
Where  have  you  been  strolling  again? 

Ilse. 
With  the  Priapial 


96  THE  AWAKENING 

Mobitz. 
Priapia  ? 

Ilse. 

With  Nohl,  with  Fehrendorf,  with  Padinsky,  with 
Lenz,  Rank,  Spühler — ^with  all  of  them  possible! 
Kling,  kling things  were  lively! 

MORITZ. 

Do  they  paint  you  ? 

Ilse.  , 

Pehrendorf  painted  me  as  a  pillar  saint.  I  am  stand- 
ing on  a  Corinthian  capital.  Pehrendorf,  I  tell  yon,  is 
a  gibbering  idiot.  The  last  time,  I  trod  on  one  of  his 
tubes.  He  wijied  his  brush  on  my  hair,  I  fetched  him 
a  box  on  the  ear.  He  threw  his  palette  at  my  head.  I 
upset  the  easel.  He  chased  me  all  about  the  studio, 
over  divans,  tables  and  chairs,  with  his  mahlstick.  Be- 
hind the  stove  stood  a  sketch ; Be  good  or  I'll  tear  it ! 

He  swore  amnesty,  and — and  then  kissed  me  promptly 
and  frightfully,  frightfully,  I  tell  you. 

MORITZ. 

Where  do  you  spend  the  night  when  you  stop  in 
town? 

Ilse. 

Yesterday  we  were  at  Nohl's. The  day  before 

with  Bojokewitsch — Sunday  with  Oikonomopulos.    We 
had  champagne  at  Padinsky's.    Yalabregez  had  sold  his 


OF  SPRIKG.  97 

"Woman  Dead  of  the  Pest."  Adolar  drank  out  of  the 
ash  tray.  Lenz  sang  the  "Child's  Murderer,"  and 
Adolar  pounded  the  guitar  out  of  shape.    I  was  so  drunk 

they  had  to  put  me  to  bed. Do  you  go  to  school  yet, 

Moritz  ? 

MOSITZ. 

No,  np, 1  take  my  leave  of  it  this  quarter. 

Ilse. 

You  are  right.  Ah,  how  time  passes  when  one  earns 
money ! Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  play  rob- 
bers ? Wendla  Bergmann  and  you  and  I  and  the 

others,  when  you  used  to  come  out  in  the  evening  and 

drink  warm   goat's   milk    at   our   house? What   is 

Wendla  doing  ?    I  haven't  seen  her  since  the  flood 

What  is  Melchi  Gabor  doing  ? Does  he  seem  as  deep 

thinking  as  ever? We, used  to  stand  opposite  each 

other  during  singing. 


He  philosophizes. 


Mobitz. 


Ilse. 


Wendla  came  to  see^  us  a  while  ago  and  brought 
Mother  some  presents.  I  sat  that  day  for  Isidor  Land- 
auer. He  needed  me  for  the  Holy  Mary,  the  Mother  of 
God,  with  the  Christ  Child.  He  is  a  ninny  and  dis- 
agreeable.    Hu,  like  a  weathercock! Have  you  a 

katzenjammer  ? 


98  THE  AWAKEKIITG 

Mobitz. 

From  last  night ! We  soaked  like  hippopotami.    I 

staggered  home  at  five  o'clock. 

Ilse. 

One  need  only  to  look  at  you. Were  there  any 

girls  there  ? 

Mobitz. 

Arabella,  the  beer  nymph,  an  Andalusian.    The  land- 
lord let  all  of  us  spend  the  whole  night  alone  witk  her. 

Ilse. 

One  only  need  look  at  you,  Moritz ! 1  don't  know 

what  a  katzen jammer's  like.  During  the  last  carnival 
I  went  three  days  and  three  nights  without  going  to  bed 
or  taking  my  clothes  off.  From  the  ball  to  the  cafe, 
noon  at  Bellavista ;  evenings,  Tingle-Tangle ;  night,  to 

the  ball.     Lena  was  there,  and  the  fat  Viola. The 

third  night  Heinrich  found  me. 

Mobitz. 
Had  he  been  looking  for  you  ? 

Ilse. 

He  tripped  over  my  arm.    I  lay  senseless  in  the  snow 

in  the  street. That's  how  I  went  with  him.     For 

fourteen  days  I  didn't  leave  his  lodgings a  dreadful 

time  I    In  the  morning  I  had  to  throw  on  his  Persian 


OF   SPRI^'G.  99 

nightgoTm  and  in  the  evening  go  about  the  room  in  the 
Hack  costume  of  a  page ;  white  lace  ruffles  at  my  neck, 
my  knees  and  my  wrists.     Every  day  he  photographed 

me  in  some  new  arrangement once  on  the  sofa  as 

Ariadne,  once  as  Leda,  once  as  Ganymede,  once  on  all 
fours  as  a  feminine  Xebuchadnezzar.  Then  he  longed 
for  murder,  for  shooting,  suicide  and  coal  gas.  Early 
in  the  morning  he  brought  a  pistol  into  bed,  loaded  it 
full  of  shot  and  put  it  against  my  breast !    A  twitch  and 

I'll  pull ! Oh,  he  would  have  fired,  Moritz,  he  would 

have  fired ! Then  he  put  the  thing  in  his  mouth  like 

a  blow-pipe. That  awoke  the  feeling  of  self-preserva- 
tion.   And  then brrr ! the  shot  might  have  gone 

through  my  spine. 

MOEITZ. 

Is  Heinrich  living  yet  ? 

Ilse. 

How  do  I  know ! Over  the  bed  was  a  large  mirror 

set  into  the  ceiling.  The  room  seemed  as  high  as  a 
tower  and  as  bright  as  an  opera  house.  One  saw  one's 
self  hanging  down  bodily  from  heaven.    I  had  frightful 

dreams  at  night 0  God,  O  God,  if  it  were  only  day! 

Good-night,   Ilse,  when  you  are  asleep  you  will 

be  pretty  to  murder ! 

Mobitz. 
Is  this  Heinrich  livins:  vet? 


100  THE  AWAKENIN'G 

Ilse. 

Please  God,  no! One  day,  when  he  went  for  a1> 

sinthe,  I  put  on  the  mantle  and  ran  out  into  the  street. 
The  carnival  was  over;  the  police  arrested  me;  what 

was  I  doing  in  man's  clothes  ? They  took  me  to  the 

Central  Station.  ÜSTohl,  Fehrendorf,  Padinsky,  Spüh- 
ler,  Oikonomopulos,  the  whole  Priapia  came  there  and 
bailed  me  out.  They  transported  me  in  a  cab  to  Ado- 
lar's  studio.  Since  then  I've  been  true  to  the  herd. 
Fehrendorf  is  an  ape,  ISTohl  is  a  pig,  Bojokewitech  an 
owl,  Loison  a  hyena,  Oikonomopulos  a  camel there- 
fore I  love  one  and  all  of  them  the  same  and  wouldn't 
attach  myself  to  anyone  else,  even  if  the  world  were 
full  of  archangels  and  millionaires ! 

Mobitz. 
I  must  go  back,  Use. 

Ilse. 
Come  as  far  as  our  house  with  me  1 

MORITZ. 

What  for  ? What  for  ? 


Ilse. 

To  drink  warm  goat's  milk !     I  will  singe  your  kair 

and  hang  a  little  bell  around  your  neck. Then  we 

have  another  kid  with  which  you  can  play. 


OF  SPRING.    •        '  '     '    '  'l0i'\ 

Mobitz, 

I  must  go  back.  I  have  yet  the  Sassanides,  the  Ser-» 
mon  on  the  Mount  and  the  parallelepipedon  on  my 
thoughts. Good-night,  Use ! 

Ilse. 

Sleep  well ! Do  you  ever  go  to  the  wigwam  where 

Melchi  Gabor  buried  my  tomahawk? Brrr!   until 

you  are  married  I'll  lie  in  the  straw. 

(Runs  out.) 

Mobitz. 

(Alone,) 

It  might  have  cost  only  a  word. (He  calls) — Use  ? 

-Use ! Thank   God    she    doesn't   hear   me   any 


more. 1  am  not  in  the  humor. One  needs  a  clear 

head  and  a  happy  heart  for  it. What  a  lost  oppor- 
tunity!  1  would  have  said  that  I  had  many  crystal 

mirrors  over  my  bed that  I  had  trained  an  un- 
broken filly that  I  had  her  proudly  march  in  front 

of  me  on  the  carpet  in  long  black  silk  stockings  and 
black  patent  leather  shoes,  long  black  gloves,  black  vel- 
vet about  her  neck had  strangled  her  in  a  moment 

of  madness  with  my  cushions.     I  would  laugh  when 

the  talk  turned  on  passion 1  would  cry  out ! 

Cry  out ! Cry  out !     It  is  you,  Ilse ! Priapia  I 

Loss  of  memory ! Th?t  takes  my  strength ! 


«     ,c  c       c 


"  'W  THE   AWAKENING 

This  child  of  fortune,  this  sunny  child this  joyous 

maiden  on  my  dolorous  path !— — O  ! 0  ! ■ 


(In  the  hushes  hy  the  batik.) 

Have  I-»  found  it  again  unwillingly — the  seat  of  turf. 
The  mulleins  seem  to  have  srrown  since  vesterdav.     The 

outlook  between  the  wallows  is  still  the  same The 

water  runs  as  heavy  as  melted  lead.  I  musn't  forget. 
(He  takes  Frau   Gabor  s  letter  from  his  pocket  and 

hums   it.) ^How   the   sparks   fly — here    and   there, 

downward    and   upward souls ! shooting    stars ! 

Before  I  struck  a  light  one  could  see  the  grass  and  a 

streak  on  the  horizon.- ISTow  it  is  dark.    Now  I  shall 

never  return  home  again. 


ACT  III 


SCEKE  FIEST. 

The  Board  Room — On  the   walls  pictures  of  Pesta- 
lozzi and  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau, 

Professors  Affenschmalz,  KnüppeldicJc,  Hungergurt, 
Knochenhruch,  Zungenschlag  and  Fliegentod  cure 
seated  around  a  green-covered  table,  over  which  are 
burning  several  gas  jets.  At  the  upper  end,  on  a  raised 
seat,  is  Rector  Sonnenstich,  Beadle  HabehaM  squats 
near  the  door, 

Sonnenstich. 

Has  any  gentleman  something  further  to  remark? 

Gentlemen !    We  cannot  help  moving  the  expulsion 

of  our  guilty  pupil  before  the  National  Board  of  Edu- 
cation ;  there  are  the  strongest  reasons  why  we  cannot : 
We  cannot,  because  we  must  expiate  the  misfortune 
which  has  fallen  upon  us  already ;  we  cannot,  because  of 
our  need  to  protect  ourselves  from  similar  blows  in  the 
future ;  we  cannot,  because  we  must  chastise  our  guilty 
pupil  for  the  demoralizing  influence  he  exerted  upon  his 
classmates;  we  cannot,  above  all,  because  we  must  hin- 
der him  from  exerting  the  same  influence  upon  his  re- 
maining classmates.    We  cannot  ignore  the  charge — and 

105 


106  THE  AWAKENmO 

tbifl,  gentiemen,  is  possibly  the  weightiest  of  all on 

any  pretext  concerning  a  mined  career,  be<ia-Qse  it  is 
our  duty  to  protect  ourselves  from  an  epidemic  of  sui- 
cide similar  to  that  which  has  broken  out  recently  in 
various  grammar  schools,  and  which  until  to-day  has 
mocked  all  attempts  of  the  teachers  to  shackle  it  by  any 
means  known  to  advanced  education Has  any  gen- 
tleman something  further  to  remark? 

Knüppeldick. 

I  can  rid  myself  of  the  conception  no  longer  that  it 
is  time  at  last  to  open  a  window  here. 

Zungenschlag. 

Th-  th-  there  is  an  a-  a-  at-  atmosphere  here  li-  li- 
like  th-  th-  that  of  the  cata-  catacombs,  like  that  in  the 
document  room  of  tke  former  Cha-Cka-Chamber  of 
Justice  at  Wetzlar. 

Sonnenstich. 
Habebald! 

Habebald. 
At  your  service,  Herr  Rector. 

Sonnenstich. 

Open  a  window.  Thank  God  there's  fresk  air  enough 
outside. Has  any  other  gentleman  anything  to  say? 


OF  SPKING.  107 

Flieoentod. 

If  mj  associate  wants  to  have  a  windo"^  opened,  I 
haven^t  the  least  objection  to  it.  Only  I  should  like  to 
ask  that  the  window  opened  is  not  the  one  directly  be- 
hind m J  back ! 

SONNEKSTICH. 

Habebald ! 

Habebaij>« 

At  your  service,  Herr  Eector. 

Sonnenstich. 

Open  the  other  window! Has  any  other  gentle- 
man anything  to  remark  ? 

HUNGEEQUKT. 

Without  wishing  to  increase  the  controversy,  I  should 
like  to  recall  the  important  fact  that  the  otker  window 
has  been  walled  up  since  vacation. 

Sonnenstich. 
Habebald  1 

Habebald. 
At  your  service,  Herr  Rector. 


108  THE   AWAKENING 

Sonnenstich. 

Leave  the  other  window  shut ! 1  find  it  necessary, 

gentlemen,  to  put  this  matter  to  a  vote.  I  request  those 
who  are  in  favor  of  having  the  only  window  which  can 
enter  into  this  discussion  opened  to  rise   from  their 

seats.   {He  counts.)   One,  two,  three one,  two,  three 

Habebald! 

Habebald. 
At  your  service,  Herr  Rector. 

Sonnenstich. 

Leave  that  window  shut  likewise !  I,  for  my  part,  am 
of  the  opinion  that  the  air  here  leaves  nothing  to  be 
desired ! Has  any  gentleman  anything  further  to  re- 
mark ? Let  us  suppose  that  we  omitted  to  move  the 

expulsion  of  our  guilty  pupil  before  the  National  Board 
of  Education,  then  the  National  Board  of  Education 
would  hold  us  responsible  for  the  misfortune  which  has 
overwhelmed  us.  Of  the  various  grammar  schools  vis- 
ited by  the  epidemic  of  self-murder,  those  in  which  the 
devastation  of  self-murder  has  reached  25  per  cent,  have 
been  closed  by  the  National  Board  of  Education.  It 
is  our  duty,  as  the  guardians  and  protectors  of  our  in- 
stitute, to  protect  our  institute  from  this  staggering 
blow.  It  grieve-s  us  deeply,  gentlemen,  that  we  are  not 
in  a  position  to  consider  the  other  qualifications  of  our 
guilt-laden  pupil  as  mitigating  circumstances.  An  in- 
dulgent treatment,  which  would  allow  our  guilty  pupil 
to  be  vindicated,  would  not  in  any  conceivable  way  im- 


OF  SPKi:NrG.  109 

aginable  vindicate  the  present  imperiled  existence  of  our 
institute.  We  see  ourselves  under  the  necessity  of  judg- 
ing the  guilt-laden  that  we  may  not  be  judged  guilty 
ourselves. Habebald ! 


Habebald. 
At  your  service,  Herr  Rector ! 

Sonnenstich. 
Bring  him  up!     {Exit  Habebald,) 

Zungenschlag. 

If  the  pre-present  atmosphere  leaves  little  or  nothing 
to  desire,  I  should  like  to  suggest  that  the  other  window 
be  walled  up  during  the  summer  va-  va-  va-  vacation. 

Fliegentod. 

If  our  esteemed  colleague,  Zungenschlag,  does  not  find 
our  room  ventilated  sufficiently,  I  should  like  to  suggest 
that  our  esteemed  colleague,  Zugenschlag,  have  a  ventil- 
ator set  into  his  forehead. 

Zungenschlag. 

I  do-  do-  don't  have  to  stand  that ! 1-  I-  I-  I-  do- 
do- don't  have  to  st-  st-  st-  stand  rudeness! 1  kave 

my  fi-  fi-  five  senses ! 


110  THE   AWAKE:tn:N'G 

Sonnenstich. 

I  must  ask  our  esteemed  colleagues,  Fliegentod  and 
Zungenschlag,  to  preserve  decorum.     It  seems  to  me 
that  our  guilt-laden  pupil  is  already  on  the  stairs. 
{Hdbebald  opens  the  door,  whereupon  Melchior,  pale 
tut  collected t  appears  before  the  meeting») 

Sonnenstich. 

Come  nearer  to  the  table ! After  Herr  Stiefel  be- 
came aware  of  the  profligate  deed  of  his  son,  the  dis- 
tracted father  searched  the  remaining  effects  of  his 
son  Moritz,  hoping  if  possible,  to  find  the  cause  of  the 
abominable  deed,  and  discovered  among  them,  in  an 
unexpected  place,  a  manuscript,  which,  while  it  did  not 
make  us  understand  the  abominable  deed,  threw  an  un- 
fortunate and  sufficient  light  upon  the  moral  disorder 
of  the  criminal.  This  manuscript,  in  the  form  of  a 
dialogue  entitled  ^The  ISTuptual  Sleep,"  illustrated 
with  life-size  pictures  full  of  shameless  obscenity,  has 
twenty  pages  of  long  explanations  that  seek  to  satisfy 
every  claim  a  profligate  imagination  can  make  upon  a 
lewd  book. 

Melohioe. 
I  have 

Sonnenstich. 

You  have  to  keep  quiet! After  Herr  Stiefel  had 

questioningly  handed  us  this  manuscript  and  we  had 
promised  the  distracted  father  to  discover  the  author  at 
any  price,  we  compared  the  handwriting  before  us  with 


OE  SPRING.  Ill 

the  collected  kandwriting  of  the  fellow-students  of  the 
deceased  profligate,  and  concluded,  in  the  unanimous 
judgment  of  the  teaching  staff,  as  well  as  with  the  full 
coincidence  of  a  valued  colleague,  the  master  of  calli- 
graphy, that  the  resemblance  to  your 

Melchior. 

I  have 

Sonnenstich. 

You  have  to  keep  quiet ! In  spite  of  this  likeness, 

recognized  as  crushing  evidence  by  incontrovertable  au- 
thority, we  believe  that  we  should  allow  ourselves  to  go 
further  and  to  take  the  widest  latitude  in  examining 
the  guilty  one  at  first  hand,  in  order  to  make  him 
answerable  to  this  charge  of  an  offense  against  morals, 
and  to  discover  its  relationship  to  the  resultant  sui- 
cide.  

Melchior. 

I  have 

Sonnenstich. 

You  have  to  answer  the  exact  questions  which  I  shall 
put  to  you,  one  after  the  other,  with  a  plain  and  modest 
"yes"  or  "no." Habebald ! 

Habebald. 
At  your  service,  Herr  Rector! 


112  THE  AWAKENING 

SOU^NENSTICH. 

The  minutes ! 1  request  our  writing  master,  Herr 

Fliegentod,  from  now  on  to  take  down  the  proceedings 

as  nearly  verbatim  as  possible. {to  Melchior.)     Do 

you  know  this  writing  ? 

Melchiob. 
Yes. 

Sonnenstich. 
Do  you  know  whose  writing  it-  is  ? 

Melchiob. 
Yes. 

Sonnenstich. 

Is  the  writing  in  this  manuscript  yours  f 

Melchiob. 
Yes. 

Sonnenstich. 

Are  you  the  author  of  this  obscene  manuscript  ? 

Melchiob. 

Yes 1  request  you,  sir,  to  show  me  anything  ob- 

ßcene  in  it. 

Sonnenstich. 

You  have  to  answer  with  a  modest  "yes"  or  '^o"  the 
exact  questions  which  I  put  to  you ! 


OF   SPRING.  113 

Melchioe. 

I  have  written  neither  more  nor  less  than  what  are 
well-known  facts  to  all  of  you. 

Sonnenstich. 
You  shameless  boy ! 

Melchior. 

I  request  you  to  show  me  an  offense  against  morals 
in  this  manuscript ! 

Sonnenstich. 

Are  you  counting  on  a  desire  on  my  part  to  be  a  clown 
for  you  ? Habebald ! 

Melchior. 
I  have 

Sonnenstich. 

You  have  as  little  respect  for  the  dignity  of  your 
assembled  teachers  as  you  have  a  proper  appreciation 
of  mankind's  innate  sense  of  shame  which  belongs  to 
a  moral  world  ! Habebald ! 

Habebald. 
At  your  service,  Herr  Kector ! 


114  THE  AWAKEOTNG 

Sonnenstich. 

It  is  past  the  time  for  the  three  hours'  exercise  in 
agglutive  Volapuk. 

Melchiob. 
I  have 

Sonnenstich. 

I  will  request  our  secretary,  Herr  Fliegentod,  to  close 
the  minutes. 

Melchiob. 
I  have 

Sonnenstich. 
You  have  to  ke-ep  still ! ! Habebald  I 

Habebald. 
At  your  service,  Herr  Rector ! 

Sonnenstich. 
Take  him  down! 


OF  SPKING.  116 

•  SCEKE  SECOND. 

A  graveyard  in  the  pouring  rain Pastor  Kalil- 

hauch  stands  beside  an  open  grave  luith  a  raised  umhrella 
in  his  hand..  To  his  right  are  Renter  Stiefel,  his  friend 
Ziegenmelher  and  Uncle  Frohst,  To  the  left  Rector 
Sonnenstich  with  Professor  Knochenhruch,  The  gram- 
mar school  students  complete  the  circle,  Martha  and 
Use  stand  somewhat  apart  upon  a  fallen  monument. 

Pastoe  Kahlbauch. 

Eor,  lie  who  rejects  the  grace  with  which  the  Everlast- 
ing Father  has  blessed  those  born  in  sin,  he  shall  die  a 

spiritual  death ! He,  however,  who  in  wilful  carnal 

abnegation  of  God's  proper  honor,  lives  for  and  serves 

evil,  shall  die  the  death  of  the  body ! Who,  however, 

wickedly  throws  away  from  him  the  cross  which  the  All 
Merciful  has  laid  upon  him  for  his  sins,  verily,  verily, 
I  say  unto  you,   he   shall   die  the  everlasting  death! 

{He  throws  a  shovelful  of  earth  into  the  grave.) 

Let  us,  however,  praise  the  All  Gracious  Lord  and 
thank  Him  for  His  inscrutable  grace  in  order  that  we 
may  travel  the  thorny  path  more  and  more  surely.  For 
as  truly  as  this  one  died  a  triple  death,  as  truly  will 
the  Lord  God  conduct  the  righteous  unto  happiness  and 
everlasting  life. 

Renter  Stiefel. 

{His  voice  stopped  with  tears,  throws  a  shovelful  of 
earth  into  the  grave.) 

The  boy  was  nothing  to  me  ! The  boy  was  nothing 

to  me ! The  boy  was  a  burden  from  his  birth  ! 


116  THE  A\YAKENING 

ReCTOE  SoNNEIiTSTICH. 

(TJirovjs  a  shovelful  of  earth  into  tlie  graved) 

Suicide  being  the  greatest  conceivable  fanlt  against 
the  moral  order  of  the  world,  is  the  greatest  evidence  of 
the  moral  order  of  the  world.  The  suicide  himself 
spares  the  world  the  need  of  pronouncing  judgment  of 
condemnation  against  kimself,  and  confirms  the  exist- 
ence of  the  moral  order  of  the  world. 

Professor  Kjstociienbruch. 
{Throws  a  shovelful  of  earth  into  the  grave.') 

Wasted — ^soiled — debauched — tattered  and  squan- 
dered ! 

Uncle  Probst. 

(Throws  a  shovelful  of  earth  into  the  grave.) 

»tf»  I  would  not  have  believed  my  o^m  mother  had  she 

told  me  that  a  child  could  act  so  basely  towards  its  own 
parents. 

Friend  Ziegenmelker. 
(Throws  a  shovelful  of  earth  into  the  grave.) 

To  treat  a  father  so,  who  for  twenty  years,  from  late 
to  early,  had  no  other  thouo-ht  than  the  welfare  of  his 
child ! ' 

Pastor  Kahlbauch. 
(Shaking  Renter  Stiefel's  hand.) 
j^  We  knov/  that  those  who  love  God  ser\"e  all  things 


OF  SPKING.  117 

best  (1  Corinthians  12:15). Think  of  the  be- 
reaved mother  and  strive  to  console  her  for  her  loss  by 
doubled  love. 

Rectoe  Sonnenstich. 

(Shaking  Eentcr  StiefeVs  hand.) 

Indeed,  we  could  not  possibly  have  promoted  him. 

PbOFESSOR  KNOCHENBRFCn. 

(ShaJving  Benter  StiefeVs  hand.) 

And  if  we  had  promoted  him,  next  spring  he  would 
have  certainly  failed  to  pass. 

Uncle  Probst. 

{Shaking  Renter  StiefeVs  hand.) 

It  is  your  duty  now^  to  think  of  yourself  first  of  all. 
You  are  the  father  of  a  family 

pRiEND  Ziegenmelker. 

{Shaking  Benter  StiefeVs  hand.) 

Trust   yourself   to   my   guidance ! This    devilish 

weather  shakes  one's  guts ! The  man  who  doesn't 

prevent  it  ^vith  a  grog  will  ruin  his  heart  valves. 

Renter  Stiefel. 

(Blowing  his  nose.) 

The  b<3y  was  nothing  to  me the  boy  was  nothing 

to  me! 


118  THE   AWAKEXIXG 

(Renter  Stiefel  leaves,  accompanied  hy  Pastor  Kahlr 
hauch.   Rector  Sonnenstich,  Professor   EnocJcenhruch, 

Uncle  Probst  and  Friend  Ziegenmelker, The  rain 

ceases.) 

Hais's  Rilow. 

(Throws  a  shovelful  of  earth  into  the  grave.) 

Eest    in    peace,    you    honest    fellow! Greet   my 

eternal  brides  for  me,  those  sacrificed  remembrances, 

and  commend  me  respectfully  to  the  grace  of  God 

you  poor  clo^m Thev  will  put  a  scarecrow  on  top 

of  jeur  grave  because  of  your  angelic  simplicity. 

Geoeqe. 
Did  they  find  the  pistol  ? 

Robert. 
There's  no  use  looking  for  the  pistol ! 

Ernest. 

Did  you  see  him,  Robert  ? 

Robert. 

It's  a  damned  infernal  swindle! WEo  did  see 

him  ? Who  did  ? 

Otto. 
He  was  hidden ! They  threw  a  covering  over  him. 


OF  SPKING.  lit 

Geoege. 
Was  his  tongue  hanging  out  ? 

Robert. 

His  ejes That's  why  they  threw  the  cloth  over 

him. 

Otto. 

Frightful ! 

TTans  Rilow. 
Do  you  know  for  certain  that  he  hanged  himself  I 

Erij^est. 
They  say  he  has  no  head  left. 

Otto. 

Incredible ! IN'onsense ! 

Egbert. 

I  have  the  clue  in  my  hands.  I  have  never  seen  a 
man  who  hanged  himself  that  they  haven't  thrown  a 
cloth  over. 

George. 
He  couldn't  have  taken  his  leave  in  a  vxdgarer  way  I 

Hans  Rilow. 

The  devil !    Hanging  is  pretty  enough ! 


120  THE   AWAKENING 

Otto. 

He  owes  me  ß.ve  marks.  We  had  a  bet.  He  swore  he 
would  keep  his  place. 

Hans  Rilow. 

You  are  to  blame  for  his  lying  there.  You  called  him 
a  boaster. 

Otto. 

[Nonsense !  I,  too,  must  grind  away  all  night.  If  he 
had  learned  the  history  of  Greek  literature  he  would 
not  have  had  to  hang  himself ! 

Eenest. 
Have  you  your  composition,  Otto  ? 

Otto. 

First  comes  the  introduction. 

Eenest. 
I  don't  know  at  all  what  to  write. 

Geoege. 

Weren't  you  there  when  Affenschmalz  gave  us  the 
theme  ? 

Hans  Rilow. 
I'll  fake  up  something  out  of  Democritus. 


OF  SPRING.  121 

Eenst. 

I  will  sec  if  there  is  anything  left  to  be  found  in 
Meyer's  Little  Encyclopedia. 

Otto. 

Have  you  your  Virgil  for  to-morrow? 


(The  schoolboys  leave Martha  and  Use  approach 

the  grave.) 

Ilse. 
Quick,  quick  ! Here  are  tke  grave-diggers  coming ! 

Martha. 
Hadn't  we  better  wait.  Use  ? 

Ilse. 

What  for  ? We'll  bring  fresh  ones.    Always  fresh 

ones.     There  are  enough  growing. 

Martha. 

You're  riirbt,  Hse ! (She  throws  a  wreath  of  ivy 

into   the  grave.     Use    drops  her  apron  and  allows   a 
shower  of  fresh  anemones  to  rain  down  on  the  coffin.) 

Martha. 

I'll  dig  up  our  roses.    I'll  be  beaten  for  it ! They 

will  be  of  some  use  here. 


122  THE    AWAKENING 

Ilse. 

I'll  water  them  as  often  as  I  pass  here.  I'll  fetch 
violets  from  the  brook  and  bring  some  iris  from  our 
house. 

Maetha. 

It  will  be  beautiful ! beautiful ! 

Ilse. 

I  was  just  across  the  brook  on  that  side  when  I  heard 
the  shot. 

Martha. 
Poor  dear! 

Ilse. 

And  I  know  the  reason^  too^  Martha. 

Martha. 
Did  he  tell  you  anything? 

Ilse. 
ParaUelepipedon !    But  don't  tell  anybody. 

Martha. 
My  hand  on  it. 

Ilse. 
Here  is  the  pistol. 


OF  SPEIN^G.  1514 

Maetha. 
That's  the  reason  they  didn't  find  it! 

Il.SE. 

I  took  it  v^ght  out  of  his  hand  when  I  came  along  in 
the  morning. 

Martha. 
Give  it  to  me,  use ! Please  give  it  to  me ! 

Ilse. 

Ko,  I'm  going  to  keep  it  for  a  souvenir. 

Maetha. 
Is  it  true,  Use,  that  he  lay  there  without  a  head  ? 

Ilse. 

He  must  have  loaded  it  with  water ! The  mulleins 

were  spattered  all  over  with  hlood.     His  hrains  wer3 
scattered  about  the  pasture. 

SCENE  THIED. 
Herr  and  Frau  Gahor, 

Feau  Gaboe. 
They  needed  a  scapegoat.     They  did  not  dare  meet 


124  THE  AWAKENING 

the  charge  that  was  made  everywhere  against  them- 
selves. .\nd  now  that  mv  child  has  had  the  misfortune 
to  run  his  head  into  the  noose  at  the  right  moment,  shall 
I,  his  o^vn  mother,  help  to  end  the  work  of  his  execution- 
ers ? God  keep  me  from  it ! 

Here  Gaboe. 

Fbr  fourteen  years  I  have  looked  on  at  your  spirited 
educational  methods  in  silence.  They  were  contrary  to 
my  ideas.  I  had  always  lived  in  the  conviction  that  a 
child  was  not  a  plaything;  a  child  should  have  a  claim 
upon  our  most  earnest  efforts.  But,  I  said  to  myself,  if 
the  spirit  and  the  grace  of  the  one  parent  are  able  to 
compensate  for  the  serious  maxims  of  the  other,  they 

may  be  given  preference  over  the  serious  maxims. 

I  am  not  reproaching  you,  Fanny,  but  don't  stand  in 
my  way  when  I  seek  to  right  your  injustice  and  mine 
toward  the  lad. 

Frau  Gabor. 

I  will  block  the  way  for  you  as  long  as  a  warm  drop  of 
blood  beats  in  me.  My  child  would  be  lost  in  the  House 
of  Correction.  A  criminal  nature  might  be  bettered  in 
such  an  institution.  I  don't  know.  A  fine  natured  man 
would  just  as  surely  turn  into  a  criminal,  like  the  plants 
when  they  are  kept  from  sun  and  light.  I  am  conscious 
of  no  injustice  on  my  part.  To-day,  as  always,  I  thank 
heaven  that  it  showed  me  the  way  to  awaken  righteous- 
ness of  character  and  nobility  of  thought  in  my  child. 
What  has  he  done  which  is  so  frightful  ?  It  doesn't  oc- 
cur to  me  to  apologize  for  him now  that  they  have 


OF  SPEIXG.  125 

hunted  him  out  of  school,  he  bears  no  fault !  And  if  it 
was  his  fault  he  has  paid  for  it.  You  may  know  better. 
You  may  be  entirely  right  theoretically.  But  I  cannot 
allow  my  only  child  to  be  forcibly  hunted  to  death. 

Heee  Gaboe. 

That  doesn't  depend  on  us,  Fanny.  That  is  the  risk 
we  took  with  our  happiness.  He  who  is  too  weak  to 
march  stops  by  the  wayside.  And,  in  the  end,  it  is  not 
the  worst  when  what  was  certain  to  come  comes  in  time 
to  be  bettered.  Heaven  protect  us  from  that !  It  is  our 
duty  to  strengthen  the  loiterer  as  long  as  reason  supplies 

a  means. That  they  have  hunted  him  out  of  school 

is  not  his  own  fault.  If  they  hadn't  hunted  him 
out  of  school,  that  wouldn't  have  been  his  fault,  either ! 
You  are  so  lighthearted.  You  perceive  inconsider- 
able trifles  when  the  question  concerns  a  fundamental 
injury  to  character.  You  women  are  not  accustomed  to 
judge  such  things.  Anyone  who  can  write  what 
Melchior  wrote  must  be  rotten  to  the  core  of  his  being. 
The  mark  is  plain.  A  half-kealthy  nature  wouldn't  do 
such  a  thing.  Xone  of  us  are  saints.  Each  of  us 
wanders  from  the  straight  path.  His  writing,  on  the 
contrary,  tramples  on  principle.  His  writing  is  no 
evidence  of  a  chance  slip  in  the  usual  way;  it  sets  forth 
with  dreadful  plainness  and  a  frankly  definite  purpose 
that  natural  longing,  that  propensity  for  irmnorality, 
because  it  is  immorality.  His  writing  manifests  that 
exceptional    state    of    spiritual    corruption    which    we 

jurists  classify  under  the  term  "moral  imbecility." 

If  anything  can  be  done  in  his  case,  I  am  not  able  to 


126  THE   AWAKENING 

say.  If  we  want  to  preserve  a  glimmer  of  hope,  and 
keep  our  spotless  consciences  as  the  parents  of  the 
victim,  it  is  time  for  us  to  go  to  work  determinedly  in 
earnest. — Don't  let  us  contend  any  more,  Fanny!  I 
feel  how  hard  it  is  for  you.  I  know  that  you  idolize  him 
because  he  expresses  so  entirely  your  genial  nature.  Be 
etronger  than  yourself.  Show  yourself  for  once  devoid 
of  self-interest  towards  vour  son. 

Frau  Gaboe. 

God  help  me,  how  can  one  get  along  that  way !  One 
must  be  a  man  to  be  able  to  talk  that  way !  One  must 
be  a  man  to  be  able  to  blind  oneself  so  with  the  dead 
letter !  One  must  be  a  man  to  be  so  blind  that  one  can't 
see  what  stares  him  in  the  eyes.  I  have  conscientiously 
and  thoughtfully  managed  Melchior  from  his  first  day, 
because  I  found  him  impressionable  to  his  surroundings. 
Are  we  answerable  for  what  has  happened  ?  A  tile  might 
fall  off  the  roof  upon  your  head  to-morrow,  and  then 
comes  your  friend — your  father,  and,  instead  of  taking 

care  of  you,  tramples  upon  you ! 1  will  not  let  my 

child  be  destroyed  before  my  eyes.     That's  the  reason 

I'm  his  mother. It  is  inconceivable!     It  is  not  to 

be  believed !  What  did  he  write,  then,  after  all !  Isn't 
it  the  most  striking  proof  of  his  harmlessness,  of  his 
stupidity,  of  his  childish  obscurity,  that  he  can  write 

so ! One  must  possess   no  intuitive  knowledge   of 

mankind one  must  be  an  out  and  out  bureaucrat,  or 

weak  in  intellect,  to  scent  moral  corruption  here! • 

Say  what  you  will.  If  you  land  Melchior  in  the  House 
of  Correction,  I  will  get  a  divorca    Then  let  me  see  if 


OF  SPRING.  127 

I  can^t  find  help  and  means  somewhere  in  the  wt)rld  to 
rescue  my  child  from  destruction. 

Here  Gaboe. 

You  must  prepare  yourself  for  it if  not  to-day, 

then  to-morrow.  It  is  not  easy  for  anyone  to  discount 
misfortune.  I  will  stand  beside  you,  and  when  your 
courage  begins  to  fail  will  spare  no  trouble  or  effort  to 
relieve  your  heart.    The  future  seems  so  gray  to  me,  so 

full  of  clouds it  only  remains  for  you  to  leave  me 

too. 

!Frau  Gaboe. 

I  should  never  see  him  again :  I  should  never  see  him 
again !  He  can't  bear  the  vulgar.  He  will  not  be  able 
to  stand  the  dirt.     He  will  break  under  restraint;  the 

most  frightful  examples  will  be  before  his  eyes! 

And  if  I  see  him  again O,  God,  O,  God,  that  joy- 
ous   heart his    clear    laughter all,     all, his 

childish  resolution  to  fight  courageously  for  good^  and 

righteousness oh,  this  morning  sky,  how  I  cherished 

it  light  and  pure  in  his  soul  as  my  highest  good 

Hold  me  to  account  if  the  sin  cries  for  expiation !    Hold 
me  to  account !     Do  with  me  what  you  will !     I  will 

bear  the  guilt. But  keep  your  frightful  hand  off 

the  boy. 

Here  Gaboe. 
He  kas  gone  wrong  I 


128  THE  AWAKENIiS^G 

Feau  Gaboe. 
He  has  not  gone  wrong ! 

Here  Gaboe. 

He  has  gone  wrong! 1  would  have  given  every- 
thing to  be  able  to  spare  your  boundless  love. A  ter- 
rified woman  came  to  me  this  morning,  scarcely  able  to 

control  her  speech,  with  this  letter  in  her  hand a 

letter  to  her  fifteen-year-old  daughter.     She  had  opened 

it  simply  out  of  curiosity ;  the  girl  was  not  at  home. 

In  the  letter  Melchior  explains  to  the  fifteen-year-old 
girl  that  his  manner  of  acting  left  him  no  peace,  that 
he  had  sinned  against  her,  etc.,  etc.,  and  that  naturally 
he  would  answer  for  it.  She  must  not  fret  herself  even 
if  she  felt  results.  He  was  already  on  the  road  after 
help;  his  expulsion  made  it  easier  for  him.  The  pre- 
vious false  step  could  still  lead  to  her  happiness ■ 

and  more  of  such  irrational  nonsense. 

Fkau  Gabob. 
Impossible ! 

Heee  Gabor. 

The  letter  is  forged.  It's  a  cheat.  Somebody  is  try- 
ing to  take  advantage  of  his  generally  known  expulsion. 

I  have  not  yet  spoken  to  the  lad  about  it but  please 

look  at  this  hand  !    See  the  writing ! 

Frau  Gaboe. 
An  imprecedented,  shameless  bit  of  knavery ! 


OF  SPRING.  129 

Heee  Sabok. 
That's  wkat  I'm  afraid ! 

Frau  Gabob. 
No,  no never^  never! 

Heee  GaboE. 

It  would  be  so  much  the  better  for  ns. The  woman, 

wringing  her  hands,  asked  me  what  she  should  do.  I 
told  her  she  should  not  leave  her  fifteen-year-old  daugh- 
ter Ivins:  about  a  havmow.    Fortunately  she  left  me  the 

letter. If  we   send   Melchior   to   another  grammar 

school,  where  he  is  not  under  parental  supervision,  in 

three  weeks  we  shall  have  the  same  result. A  new 

expulsion his  joyful  heart  will  get  used  to  it  after 

awhile. Tell  me,  Fanny,  where  shall  I  send  the  lad  ? 

Feau  Gaboe. 
To  the  House  of  Correction 

Heeb  Gabob. 
To  the  ? 

Feau  Gabob. 

House  of  Correction! 

Heee  Gaboe. 
He  will  find  there,  in  the  first  place,  that  which  h&a 


130  THE  awakeni:n"G 

been  wrongfully  withheld  from  him  at  home,  parental 
discipline,  principles,  and  a  moral  constraint  to  which 

he  must  submit  under  all  circumstances. Moreover, 

the  House  of  Correction  is  not  a  place  of  terror,  as  you 
think  it.  The  greatest  weight  is  laid  in  the  establish- 
ment upon  the  development  of  Christian  thought  and 
sensibility.  The  lad  will  learn  at  last  to  follow^^od 
in  place  of  desire  and  not  to  follow  his  natural  instincts, 

but  to  observe  the  letter  of  the  law. A  half  hour 

ago  I  received  a  telegram  from  my  brother  that  confirms 
the  woman's  statement.  Melchior  has  confided  in  him 
and  begged  him  for  200  marks  in  order  to  fly  to 
England 

Eeau  Gaboe. 
(Covering  her  face.) 
Merciful  heavens! 


SCENE  FOUETH. 

The  House  of  Correction. — A  corridor, — Diethelm, 
Bheinhold,  Ruprecht,  Helmuth,  Gaston  and  Melchior. 

DlETHELM. 

Here  is  a  twenty  pfennig  piece ! 


OF  SPKING.  131 

Rheinhold. 
What  shall  we  do  with  it? 

DiETHELM. 

I  wiU  lay  it  on  the  floor.     Arrange  jonrselvea  abont 
it     Who  can  get  it  can  keep  it. 

KlTPEECHT. 

Won't  you  join  us,  Melchior  ? 

Melchioe. 
No,  thank  you. 

Helmuth. 
The  Joseph ! 

Gaston. 
He  can't  do  anything  else.    He  is  here  for  recreation. 

Melchiob. 

(To  himself.) 

It  is  not  wise  for  me  to  separate  myself  from  them. 

They  all  have  an  eye  on  me.     I  must  join  them or 

the  creature  goes  to  the  devil imprisonment  drives 

it  to  suicide. If  I  break  my  neck,  all  is  well ! If 

I  escape,  that  is  good,  too !  I  can  only  win.  Ruprecht 
would  become  my  friend.  He  has  acquaintances  here. 
1  had  better  give  him  the  chapter  of  Judas'  daugh- 


132  THE    AWAKENIN'G 

ter-in-law,  Thamar,  of  Moab,  of  Lot  and  his  kindred, 

of  Queen  Yashti  and  of  Abishag  tue  Shunammite. 

He  has  the  unhappiest  physiognomy  of  the  lot  of  them. 

EUPEECHT. 

I  have  it ! 

Helmuth. 
Tilget  it  yet! 

Gaston. 
The  day  aftsr  to-morrow,  perhaps. 

Helmuth. 
Right  away! Now! O  God!  O  God! 

All. 
Summa Summa  cum  laude!  ! 

Ruprecht. 

{Taking  the  money.) 

Many  thanks! 

Helmuth. 

Here,  you  dog! 

RUPEECHT. 

You  swine! 

Helmuts. 
Gallows  bird! 


OF   SPRING.  133 

RUPEECHT. 

{Hits  Mm  in  the  face,) 
There!  (Runs  away.) 

Helmuth. 

(Running  after  Mm*) 
I'll  strike  you  dead ! 

The  Rest  gt  Them. 
(Running  after,) 
Chase  him !     Ckase  him !     Chase  him !     Chase  him ! 

Melchioe. 
(Alone,  wandering  toward  the  window,) 

The  lightning  rod  runs  down  there. One  would 

have  to  wind  a  pocket  handkerchief  about  it. When 

I  think  of  them  the  blood  always  rushes  to  my  head. 
And  Moritz  turns  my  feet  to  lead. I'll  go  to  a  news- 
paper.    If  they  pay  me  by  space  I'll  be  a  free  lance! 

collect   the  news   of   the   day ^write ^locals 

ethical psychophysical one    doesn't    starve 


so  easily  nowadays.     Public  soup  houses,  Cafe  Tem- 
perance  The  house  is  sixty  feet  high  and  the  cornice 

is  crumbling They  hate  me they  hate  me  be- 
cause I  rob  them  of  liberty.     Handle  myself  as  I  will, 

there  remain  misdemeanors 1  dare  only  hope  in  the 

course  of  the  year,  gradually It  will  be  new  moon 


134  THE   AWAKENING 

in  eight  days.  To-morrow  I'll  grease  the  hinges.  By 
Sunday  evening  I  must  find  out  somehow  who  has  the 

key. Sunday  evening,  during  prayers,  a  cataleptic 

fit 1  hope  to  God  nobody  else  will  be  sick!^ 

Everything  seems  as  clear  to  me  as  if  it  had  happened. 
Over  the  window-frames  I  can  reach  easily — a  swing — 
a  clutch — but  one  must  wind  a  handkerchief  about  it. 

Tkere  comes  the  head  inquisitor.      (Exit  to  the 

left.) 

{Dr.  ProJcrustes  enters  from  the  right  with  a  loch- 

STrwth,) 

Dr.  Peokeustes. 

The  window  is  on  the  third  floor  and  has  stinging 
nettles  planted  under  it,  but  what  do  the  degenerates 

care  for  stinging  nettles! Last  winter  one  of  them 

got  out  of  the  trap  door  on  the  roof,  and  we  had  the 
whole  trouble  of  capturing  him,  bringing  him  back, 
and  locking  him  up  again 

The  Locksmith. 
Do  yon  want  the  grating  of  wrought  iron  ? 

Dr.  Prokrustes. 
Of  wrought  iron— — riveted  so  they  cannot  meddle 
with  it. 


OF  SPRING.  135 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

A    hedchumher. — Frau    Bergmann,    Ina    Müller    and 
Doctor  von  Brausepulver,     Wendla  in  hed, 

Dk.    V0]N"   BßAüSEPüLVEB. 

How  old  are  you,  exactly? 

Wendla. 
Fourteen  and  a  half. 

De.  von  Bratjsepitlveb. 

I  have  been  ordering  Blaud's  pills  for  fifteen  years 
and  have  noticed  astonishing  results  in  the  majority  of 
cases.  I  prefer  them  to  cod  liver  oil  and  vine  of  iron. 
Begin  with  three  or  four  pills  a  day,  and  increase  the 
number  just  as  soon  as  you  are  able.  I  ordered  Fräu- 
lein Elfriede.  Baroness  von  Witzleben  to  increase  the 
number  of  them  by  one,  every  third  day.  The  Baroness 
misunderstood  me  and  increased  the  number  every  day 
by  three.  Scarcely  three  weeks  later  the  Baroness  was 
able  to  go  to  Pyrmont  with  her  mother  to  complete  her 

cure. 1  will  allow  you  to  dispense  with  exhausting 

walks  and  extra  meals;  therefore,  promise  me,  dear 
child,  to  take  frequent  exercise  and  to  avoid  unwhole- 
some food  as  soon  as  the  desire  for  it  appears  again. 

Then  this  palpitation  of  the  heart  will  soon  cease 

and  the  headache,  the  chills,  the  giddiness and  this 


136  THE    AWAKEXIITG 

frightful  indigestion.  Fräulein  Elfriede,  Baroness  von 
Witzleben,  ate  a  whole  roast  chicken  with  new  potatoes 
for  her  breakfast  eight  days  after  her  convalescence, 

Ekau  Beegmajstn. 
May  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  wine,  Doctor  ? 

De.  voi«'  Bkausepulvee. 

I  thank  you,  dear  Erau  Bergmann,  my  carriage  is 

waiting. Do  not  take  it  so  to  heart.    In  a  few  weeks 

our  dear  little  patient  will  be  again  as  fresh  and  bright 

as  a  gazelle.     Be  of  good  cheer. Good-day,   Erau 

Bergmann,  good-day,  dear  child,  good-day,  ladies • 

good-day. 

{Frau  Bergmann  accompanies  him  to  the  door,) 

Ina. 

(At  the  window,) 

IN'ow  your   plantains   are   in  bloom   again. Can 

you    see    that    from    your    bed  ? A    short    display, 

hardly  worth  rejoicing  over  them,  they  come  and  go 
so  quickly.  I,  too,  must  go  right  away  now.  Müller 
is  waiting  for  me  in  front  of  the  postoffice,  and  I  must 
go  first  to  the  dressmaker's.  Mucki  is  to  have  his  first 
trousers  and  Karl  is  to  have  new  knit  leggins  for  winter. 

Wendla. 
Sometimes  I  feel  so  happy all  joy  and  sunshine. 


OF   SPRIXG.  137 

I  had  not  guessed  that  it  could  go  so  well  in  one's  heart ! 
I  want  to  go  out,  to  go  over  the  meadows  in  the  twi- 
light, to  look  for  primroses  along  the  river  and  to  sit 
down  on  the  banks  and  dream — Then  comes  the  tooth- 
ache, and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  to  die  the  next  morning 
at  daybreak;  I  grow  hot  and  cold,  it  becomes  dark  be- 
fore my  eyes ;  and  then  the  beast  flutters  inside. 

As  often  as  I  wake  up,  I  see  Mother  crying.  Oh,  that 
hurts  me  so. 1  can't  tell  you  how  much,  Ina  I 

Ina. 
Shall  I  lift  your  pillows  higher  ? 

Eeau  Bergmann. 

(Returning.) 

He  thinks  the  vomiting  will  soon  cease ;  and  then  you 

can  get  up  in  peace 1,  too,  think  it  would  be  better 

if  you  got  up  soon,  Wendla. 

Ina. 

Possibly  when  I  visit  you  the  next  time  you  will  be 
dancing  around  the  house  again.  Good-bye,  ^Mother.  I 
must  positively  go  to  the  dressmaker's.  God  guard  you, 
Wendla  dear.  (Kisses  her.)  A  speedy,  speedy  recov- 
ery!    (Exit  Ina.) 

Wendla. 
What  did  he  tell  you.  Mother,  when  he  was  outside? 


138  THE    AWAKENING 

Feau  Beegmann. 

He  didn't  say  anything. He  said  Fräulein  von 

Witzleben  was  subject  to  fainting  spells  also.     It  is 

almost  always  so  with  chlorosis. 

Wendla. 
Did  he  say  that  I  have  chlorosis,  Mother  ? 

Feau  Beegmann. 

You  are  to  drink  milk  and  eat  meat  and  vegetableä 
wken  your  appetite  comes  back. 


Wendla. 
O,  Mother,  Mother,  I  believe  I  haven't  chlorosis- 


Feau  Beegmann. 

You  have   chlorosis,   child.      Be   calm,  Wendla,   be 
calm,  you  have  chlorosis. 

Wendla. 

No,  Mother,  no!     I  know  it.     I  feel  it.     I  haven't 
chlorosis.     I  have  dropsy 

Feau  Beegmann. 

You  have  chlorosis.    He  said  positively  that  you  have 
chlorosis.     Calm  yourself,  girl.     You  will  get  better. 


OF  SPRING.  139 

Wendi^a. 

I  won't  get  better.     I  have  the  dropsy,  I  must  die, 
Mother. O,  Mother,  I  must  die ! 

Feau  Bergmann. 

You  must  not  die,  child !    You  must  not  die — Greai 
heavens,  you  must  not  die! 

Wendla. 
But  why  do  you  weep  so  frightfully,  then ! 

Feau  Bergmann. 

You  must  not  die,  child!     You  haven't  the  dropsy, 

you  have  a  child,  girl !    You  have  a  child ! Oh,  why 

did  you  do  that  to  me ! 

Wendla, 
I  kaven't  done  anything  to  you. 

Frau  Bergmann. 

Oh  don't  deny  it   any  more,   Wendla? 1  know 

everything.     See,  I  didn't  want  to  say  a  word  to  you. 
Wendla,  my  Wendla ! 

Wendla. 
But  it's  not  possible.  Mother.     I'm  not  married  yet! 


\ 


140  THE    AWAKENING 

Fbau  Bergmann. 

Great  Almighty  God ^that's  just  it,  that  you  are 

not  married !     That  is  the  most  frightful  thing  of  all ! 
Wendla,  Wendla,  Wendla,  what  have  you  done!  ! 

Wendla. 

God  knows,  I  don't  know  any  more !    We  lay  in  the 

hay 1  have  loved  nobody  in  the  world  as  I  do  you, 

Mother. 

Ekau  Bergmann. 
My  sweetheart 

Wendla. 
O  Mother,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  everything ! 

u 

Featj  Bergmann. 

Child,  child,  let  us  not  make  each  other's  hearts  any 
heavier !  Take  hold  of  yourself !  Don't  make  me  des- 
perate, child.  To  tell  that  to  a  fourteen-year-old  girl! 
See,  I  expected  that  about  as  much  as  I  did  the  sun 
going  out.     I  haven't  acted  any  differently  towards  you 

than  my  dear,  good  mother  did  toward  me. Oh,  let 

us  trust  in  the  dear  God,  Wendla ;  let  us  hope  for  com- 
passion, and  have  compassion  toward  ourselves!  See, 
nothing  has  happened  yet,  child.     And  if  we  are  not 

cowardly  now,  God  won't  forsake  us. Be  cheerful, 

Wendla,  be  cheerful! One  sits  so  at  the  window 

with  one's  hands  in  one's  lap,  while  everything  changes 


OF   SPRING.  141 

to  good,  and  then  one  realizes  that  one  almost  wanted 
to  break  one's  heart Wa why  are  you  shivering  1 

Wendla. 
Somebody  knocked. 

Feau  Beeqmann. 

I  didn't  kear  anything,  dear  heart.     (  Goes  and  opens 
the  door.) 

Wendla. 

But  I  heard  it  very  plainly Who  is  outside  ? 

Frau  Bergmann. 

ITobody Schmidt's  Mother  from  Garden  street. 

You  come  just  at  the  right  time,  Mother  Schmidt. 


SCENE  SIXTH. 


Men  and  women  wine-dressers  in  fhe  vineyard. 
The  sun  is  setting  behind  the  peals  of  the  mountains  in 
the  west.  A  clear  sound  of  hells  rises  from  the  valley  he- 
low.  Hans  Rilow  and  Ernest  Rohel  roll  about  in  the  dry 
grass  of  the  highest  plot  under  the  overhanging  rocks, 

Ernest. 
I  have  overworked  myself. 


142  THE   AWAKENING 

Hans. 

Don't  let  us  be  sad! It's  a  pity  the  minutes  are 

passing. 

Eenest. 

One  sees  them  hanging  and  can't  manage  any  more 
and  tomorrow  they  are  in  the  wine  press. 

Hans. 
Fatigue  is  as  intolerable  to  me  as  hunger. 

Eenest. 
Oh,  I  can't  eat  any  more. 

Hans. 

«Tust  this  shining  muscatelle! 

Ebnest. 
My  elasticity  has  its  limit. 

Hans. 

If  I  bend  down  the  vine,  we  can  sway  it  from  moutK 
to  mouth.  Neither  of  us  will  have  to  disturb  himself. 
We  can  bite  off  the  grapes  and  let  the  branches  fly  back 
to  the  trunk. 

Ernest. 

One  hardly  decides  upon  a  thing,  when,  see,  that  van- 
ishing power  begins  to  darken. 


OF   SPRING.  143 

Hans. 

Hence  the  flaming   firmament and   the  evening 

bells 1  promise  myself  little  more  for  the  future. 

Eenest. 

Sometimes  I  see  myself  already  as  a  worthy  pastor — 
with  a  good-natured  little  wife,  a  well-filled  library  and 
offices  and  dignities  all  about  me.  For  six  days  one 
has  to  think,  and  on  the  seventh  one  opens  one's  mouth. 
When  out  walking,  one  gives  one's  hand  to  the  school- 
girls and  boys,  and  when  one  comes  home  the  coffee 
steams,  the  cookies  are  brou2:ht  out  and  the  maids  fetch 

apples  through  the  garden  door. Can  you  imagine 

anything  more  beautiful  ? 

Hans. 

I   imagine   half-closed    eyelids,    half-open   lips    and 

Turkish  draperies. 1  do  not  believe  in  pathos.    Our 

elders  show  us  long  faces  in  order  to  hide  their  stupid- 
ity. Among  themselves  they  call  each  other  donkeys 
just  as  we  do.  I  know  that. When  I  am  a  million- 
aire I'll  erect   a  monument  to   God. Imagine  the 

future  as  a  milkshake  with  sugar  and  cinnamon.  One 
fellow  upsets  it  and  howls,  another  stirs  it  all  together 

and  sweats.    Why  not  skim  off  the  cream  ? Or  don't 

you  believe  that  one  can  learn  how? 

Eenbst. 
Let  us  akim! 


144  THE    AWAKENIJS^G 

Hans. 

What  remains  the  hens  will  eat. 1  have  pulled 

my  head  out  of  so  many  traps  already 

Eenest. 
Let  us  skim,  Hans ! Why  do  you  laugh  ? 

Hans. 
Are  you  beginning  again  already  ? 

Ernest. 
But  one  of  us  must  begin. 

Hans. 

Thirty  years  from  now,  on  some  evening  like  to-day, 
if  we  recall  this  one,  perhaps  it  will  seem  too  beautiful 
for  expression. 

Eenest. 

And  how  everything  springs  from  selil 

Hans. 
Why  not? 

Eenest. 

If  by  chancje  one  were  alone one  might  like  to 

weep! 


OF   SPRING.  145 

Hans. 
Don't  let  us  be  sad !     {Be  kisses  him  on  the  mouth,) 

Eknest. 
{Returning  the  kiss.) 
I  left  the  house  with  the  idea  of  just  speaking  to  you 
and  turning  back  again. 

Hans. 

I  waited  for  you. Virtue  is  not  a  bad  garment, 

but  it  requires  an  imposing  figure. 

Ernest. 

It  fits  us  loosely  as  yet. 1  should  not  have  been 

content  if  I  had  not  met  you. 1  love  you,  Hans,  as 

I  have  never  loved  a  soul 

Hans. 

Let  us  not  be  sad. H  we  recall  this  in  thirty  years, 

perhaps  vre  shall  make  fun  of  it. And  yet  every^ 

thine  is  so  beautiful.  The  moujitains  glow;  the  grapes 
hang  before  our  mouths  and  the  evening  breeze  ca- 
resses the  rocks  like  a  playful  flatterer. 


146  THE    AWAKENING 


SCENE  SEVENTH. 

'A  clear  November  night.     The  dry  foliage  of  the 
hushes  and  trees  rustles.    Tom  clouds  chase  each  other 

beneath    the    moon Melchior    clambers    over    the 

churchyard  wall, 

Melchioe. 
{Springing  down  inside,) 

The  pack  won't  follow  me  here. While  they  are 

searching  the  brothels  I  can  get  my  breath  and  discover 
how  much  I  have  accomplished. 

Coat  in  tatters,  pockets  empty I'm  not  safe  from 

the  most  harmless. 1  must  try  to  get  deeper  into 

the  wood  to-morrow. 

I  have  trampled  down  a  cross Even  to-day  the 

flowers  are  frozen ! The  earth  is'  cold  all  around 

In  the  domain  of  the  dead ! 

To  climb  out  of  the  hole  in  the  roof  was  not  as  hard 

as  this  road ! It  was  only  there  that   I  kept  my 

presence  of  mind 

I  hung  over  the  abyss everything  was  lost  in  it, 

vanished Oh,  if  I  could  have  stayed  there. 

Why  she,  on  my  acco'mt! Why  not  the  guilty! 

Inscrutable  providence  ! 1  would  have  broken 

stones  and  gone  hungry ! TMiat  is  to  keep  me  straight 

now  ? Offense  follows  offense.       T  am  swallowed  up 

in  the  morass.  I  haven't  strength  left  to  get  out  of 
it 


OF  SPRING. 


147 


I  was  not  bad ! 1  was  not  bad ! 1  was  not  bad ! 

' No  mortal  ever  wandered  so  dejectedly  over  graves 

before. Pah! 1  won't  lose  courage!     Oh,  if  I 

should  go  crazy during  this  very  night ! 

I  must  seek  there  among  the  latest  ones! The 

w^ind  pipes  on  every  stone  in  a  different  key- 


-an  an- 
guishing symphony! Tlie  decayed  wreaths  rip  apart 

and  swing  with  their  long  threads  in  bits  about  the  mar- 
ble crosses A  wood  of  scarecrows! Scarecrows 

on  every  grave,  each  more  gruesome  than  the  other 

as  high  as  houses,  from  which  the  devil  runs  away. 

The  golden  letters  sparkle  so  coldly The  weeping 

willows  gi'oan  and  move  their  giant  fingers  over  the 
inscriptions 

A  praying  angel a  tablet. 

The  clouds  throw  their  shadows  over  it. How  the 

wind  hurries  and  howls  !- 
it    drives    in    from    the 
heavens 

Evergreen  in  the  garden  plot  ? Evergreen  ? A 

maiden 


Like  the  march  of  an  army 

east. Not    a   star    in    the 


± 


HERE  RESTS  IN  GOD 


McnDla  :ß3erömann, 

born  ilba^Q  5,  IS7S, 

Öteö  from  Cbloroeis, 

©ctober  27»  1S92. 


3ßlC00Cö  are  tbe  pure  of  TlDcart 


148  THE    AWAKENING 

And  I  am  her  murderer.     I  am  her  murderer! — — 

Despair  is  left  me 1  dare  not  weep  here.     Away 

from  here! Away 

MoRiTz  Stiefel. 

(With  his  head  under  his  arm,  comes  stamping  over 

the  graves.) 

A  moment,  Melchior !  The  opportunity  will  not  oc- 
cur so  readily  again.  You  can't  guess  what  depends 
upon  the  place  and  the  time 

Melchior. 
Where  do  you  come  from  ? 

Mobitz. 

From  over  there over  hy  the  wall.    You  knocked 

down  my  cross.     I  lie  by  the  wall. Give  me  your 

hand,  Melchior. 

Melchior. 
You  are  not  Moritz  Stiefel ! 

Moritz. 

Give  me  your  hand.  I  am  convinced  you  will  thank 
me.  It  won't  be  so  easy  again!  This  is  an  unusually 
fortunate  encounter. 1  came  out  especially 

Melchior. 
Don't  you  sleep  ? 


OF   SPRING.  149 

MOEITZ. 

Kot  wkat  you  call  sleep. We  sit  on  tlie  church- 
tower,  on  the  high  gables  of  the  roof wherever  we 

please. 

Melchioe. 


Restless  ? 


MORITZ. 


Half  happy. We  wander  among  the  Mayflowers, 

among  the  lonely  paths  in  the  woods.  We  hover  over 
gatherings  of  people,  over  the  scene  of  accidents,  gar- 
dens,   festivals. We    cower    in    the    chimneys    of 

dwelling-places  and  behind  the  bed  curtains. Give 

me  your  hand. We  don't  associate  with  each  other, 

but  we  see  and  hear  everything  that  is  going  on  in  the^ 
world.     We  know  that  everything  is  stupidity,  every- 
thing that  men  do  and  contend  for,  and  we  laugh  at  it. 

Melchioe. 
What  good  does  that  do  ? 

Mobitz. 

What  good  does  it  have  to  do? We  are  fit  for 

nothing  more,  neither  good  nor  evil.  We  stand  high, 
high  above  earthly  beings — each  for  himself  alone.  We. 
do  not  associate  with  each  other,  because  it  would  bore 
us.  Not  one  of  us  cares  for  anything  which  he  might 
lose.  We  are  indifferent  both  to  sorrow  and  to  joy.  \Jq 
are  satisfied  with  ourselves  and  that  is  all     We  despise 


150  THE    AWAKE^^mG 

the  living  so  heartily  that  we  can  hardly  pity  them. 
They  amuse  us  with  their  doings,  because,  being  alive, 
they  are  not  worthy  of  compassion.     We  laugh  at  their 

tragedies — each   by    himself and    make    reflections 

upon  them. Give  me  your  hand !     If  you  give  me 

your  hand,  you  will  fall  down  with  laughter  over  the 
sensation  which  made  you  give  me  your  hand. 

Melchioe. 
Doesn't  that  disgust  you  ? 

Mobitz. 

We  are  too  high  for  that.     We  smile! At  my 

burial  I  was  among  the  mourners.  I  had  a  right  good 
time.  That  is  sublimity,  Melchior!  I  howled  louder 
than  any  and  slunk  over  to  the  wall  to  hold  my  belly 
from  shaking  with  laughter.  Our  unapproachable  sub- 
limity is  the  only  viewpoint  which  the  trash  understands 

They  would  have  laughed   at  me   also  before  I 

swung  myself  off. 

Melchioe. 
I  have  no  desire  to  laugh  at  myself. 

MOEITZ. 

The  living,  as  such,  are  not  really  worth  compassion ! 
1  admit  I  should  not  have  thousrht  so  either.     And 


now  it  is  incomprehensible  to  me  how  one  can  be  so 
naive.     I  see  through  the  fraud  so  clearly  that  not  a 


OF   SPRING.  151 

cloud   remains. Why   do  you   want   to   loiter  now, 

Melchior !     Give  me  your  hand  !     In  the  turn  of  a  head 

you  will  stand  heaven  high  above  yourself. Your 

life  is  a  sin  of  omission 


Melchior. 
Can  you  forget  ? 

Mobitz. 

We  can  do  everything.  Give  me  your  hand!  We 
can  pity  the  young,  who  take  their  timidity  for  ideal- 
ism, and  the  old,  who  break  their  hearts  from  sto-. 
ical  deliberation.  We  see  the  Kaiser  tremble  at  a  scurri- 
lous ballad  and  the  lazzaroni  before  the  youngest  police- 
man. We  ignore  the  masks  of  comedians  and  see  the 
poet  in  the  shadow  of  the  mask.  We  see  happiness  in 
beggars'  rags  and  the  capitalist  in  misery  and  toil.  We 
observe  lovers  and  see  them  blush  before  each  other, 
foreseeing  that  they  are  deceived  deceivers.  We  see 
parents  bringing  children  into  the  world  that  they  may 
be  able  to  say  to  them :  ''How  happy  you  are  to  have 
such  parents !" and  see  the  children  go  and  do  like- 
wise. We  can  observe  the  innocent  girl  in  the  qualms 
of  her  first  love,  and  the  five-groschen  harlot  reading 

Schiller. ^We  see  God  and  the  devil  blaming  each 

other,  and  cherish  the  unspeakable  belief  that  both  of 

them  are   drunk Peace  and  joy,   Melchior!     You 

only  need  to  reach  me  your  little  finger.  You  may  be- 
come snow-white  before  you  have  such  a  favorable  op- 
portunity again ! 


152  THE    AWAKENING 

Melchior. 

If  I  gave  you  my  hand,  Moritz,  it  would  be  from 

self-contempt. 1  see  myself  outlawed.     What  lent 

me  courage  lies  in  the  grave.  I  can  no  longer  consider 
noble  emotions  as  worthy. And  see  nothing,  noth- 
ing, that  can  save  me  now  from  my  degradation. To 

myself  I  am  the  most  contemptible  creature  in  the  uni* 
verse. 

Mobitz. 

What  delays  you  ? 

(A  Tnasked  man  appears,^^ 

The  Masked  Matt. 

(To  Melchior.) 

You  are  trembling  from  hunger.     You  are  not  fit 
to  judge.     {To  Moritz.)    You  go! 

Melchioe. 
Who  are  you? 

The  Masked  Man". 

I  refuse  to  tell.     (To  Moritz.)     Vanish! WHat 

business  have  you  here ! Why  haven't  you  on  your 

head? 

Mobitz. 
I  shot  myself. 


OF  SPRING.  153 

TnE  Masked  "Matt. 

Then  stay  where  you  belong.     You  are  done  with! 
Don't  annoy  us  here  with  your  stink  oi  the  grave.     It's 

inconceivable  I Look    at    your    fingers !      Pfu,    the 

devil !     They  will  crumble  soon. 

Mobitz. 

Please  don't  send  me  away • 


Melchior. 
tWho  are  you,  sir  ?  ? 

Mobitz. 

Please  don't  send  me  away.  Please  don't.  Let  me 
stay  here  a  bit  with  you;  I  won't  disturb  you  in  any 
thing It  is  so  dreadful  down  there. 

The  Masked  Man. 

Why  do  you  gabble  about  sublimity,  then? ^You 

know  that  that  is  humbug sour  grapes !     Why  do 

you  lie  so  diligently,  you  chimera  ?  If  you  consider 
it  so  great  a  favor,  you  may  stay,  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned.    But  take  yourself  to  leeward,  my  dear  friend 

and  please  keep  your  dead  man's  hand  out  of  the 

game ! 

Melchiob. 

Will  you  tell  me  once  for  all  who  you  are,  or  not  ? 


154  THE    AWAKEjS^ING 

The  Masked  Man. 

No 1  propose  to  you  that  you  shall  confide  your- 
self to  me.    I  will  take  care  of  your  future  success. 

Melchioe. 
You  are my  father? 

The  Masked  Man. 
Wouldn't  you  know  your  father  by  his  voice  f 

Melchiob. 
No. 

The  Masked  Man. 

Your  father  seeks  consolation  at  this  moment  in  the 

sturdy  arms  of  your  mother. 1  will  open  the  world 

to  you.  Your  momentary  lack  of  resolution  springs 
from  your  miserable  condition.  With  a  warm  supper 
inside  of  you,  you  will  make  fun  of  it. 

Melchior. 

{To  himself,) 

It  can  only  be  the  devil!  (Aloud.)  After  that  of 
which  I  have  been  guilty,  a  warm  supper  cannot  give 
me  back  my  peace! 

The  Masked  Man. 
That  will  follow  the  supper ! 1  can  tell  you  this 


OF  SPRIXG.  155 

much,  tke  girl  tad  better  have  given  birth.  She  was 
built  properly.     Unfortunately,  she  was  killed  bj  the 

abortives  given  by  Mother  Schmidt. 1  will  take  you 

out  among  men.  I  will  give  you  the  opportunity  to  en- 
large your  horizon  fabulously.  I  will  make  you  thor- 
oughly acquainted  with  everything  interesting  that  the 
world  has  to  offer. 

Melchioe. 

Who  are  you?     Who  are  you? 1  can't  trust  a 

man  that  I  don^t  know. 


The  Masked  Man. 
You  can't  learn  to  know  me  unless  you  trust  me. 

Melchioe. 
Do  you  think  so  ? 

The  Masked  Man. 
Of  course ! Besides,  you  have  no  choice. 

Melchioe. 

I  can  reaeh  my  hand  to  my  friend  here  at  any  mo- 
ment. 

The  Masked  Man. 

Your  friend  is  a  charlatan.  Xobody  laughs  who  kas 
a  pfennig  left  in  cash.  The  sublime  humorist  is  the 
most  miserable,  most  pitiable  creature  in  creation. 


156  THE   AWAKENING 

Melchioe. 

Let  the  humorist  be  what  he  may;  you  tell  me  who 
you  are,  or  I'll  reach  the  humorist  my  hand. 

The  Masked  Man. 
What  then? 

MORITZ. 

He  is  right,  Melchior.  I  have  boasted.  Take  his 
advice  and  profit  by  it.  No  matter  how  masked  he  is 
he  is,  at  least. 

Melchior. 
Do  you  believe  in  God  ? 

The  Masked  Man. 

Yes,  conditionally. 

Melchioe. 
Will  you  tell  me  who  discovered  gimpowder  ? 

The  Masked  Man. 

Berthold    Schwarz alias    Konstantin    AnHitzen. 

-A  Franciscan  monk  at  Freiburg  in  Breisgau,  in 


1330. 

Mobitz. 

What  wouldn't  I  give  if  he  had  let  it  alone ! 


OF  SPRING.  157i 

The  Masked  Man. 
Yon  would  only  have  kanged  yourself  then. 

Melchior. 
What  do  you  think  about  morals? 

The  Masked  Man. 
Yon  rascal,  am  I  your  schoolboy  ? 

Melchiob. 
Do  I  know  what  you  are  ? 

Mobitz. 

Don't  quarrel! Please  don't  quarrel.    What  good 

does  that  do? Why  should  we  sit,  two  linng  men 

and  a  corpse,  together  in  a  churchyard  at  two  o'clock  m 
the  morning  if  we  want  to  quarrel  like  topers !  It  will 
be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  arbitrate  between  you.  If  you 
want  to  quarrel,  I'll  take  my  head  under  my  arm  and  go ! 

Melchiob. 
Yon  are  the  same  old  'fraid  cat  as  ever. 

The  Masked  Man. 
The  phantom  is  not  wrong.     One  shouldn^t  forget 
one's   dignity. By   morals   I   understand   the  real 


II 


168  THE    AWAKENING 

product  of  two  imaginary  quantities.  The  imaginary 
quantities  are  "sbsl-l''  and  ^^will."  The  product  is 
called  morals  and  leaves  no  doubt  of  its  reality.  1 

Mobitz. 

If  you  had  only  told  me  that  earlier!     My  morals 

hounded  me  to  death.    For  the  sake  of  my  dear  parents 

I  killed  myself.     ^^Honor  thy  father  and  mother  that 

thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land."     The  text  made  a 

^penomenal  fool  of  me. 

The  Masked  Man. 

Give  yourself  up  to  no  more  illusions,  dear  friend. 
Your  dear  parents  would  have  died  as  little  from  it  as 
you  did.  Judged  righteously,  they  would  only  have 
raged  and  stormed  from  the  healthiest  necessity. 

Melchioe. 

That  may  be  right  as  far  as  it  goes. 1  can  assure 

you,  however,  sir,  that  if  I  reach  Moritz  my  hand, 
sooner  or  later  my  morals  alone  will  have  to  bear  the 
blame. 

The  Masked  Man. 
That  is  just  the  reason  you  are  not  Moritz ! 

Moritz. 

But  I  don^t  believe  the  difference  is  so  material,  so 
compulsive  at  least,  esteemed  unkno^vn,  but  what  by; 


OF   SPEING.  159 

chance  the  same  thing  might  have  happened  to  you  as 
happened  to  me  that  time  when  I  trotted  through  the 
alder  grove  with  a  pistol  in  my  pocket. 

The  Masked  Man. 

Don't  you  remember  me?     You  Ka-ve  be^n  standing 

for  the  moment  actually  between  life  and  death. 

Moreover,  in  my  opinion,  this  is  not  exactly  the  place 
in  which  to  continue  such  a  profound  debate. 

MORITZ. 

Certainly,  it's  growing  cold,  gentlemen!  They 
dressed  me  in  my  Sunday  suit,  but  I  wear  neither  un- 
dershirt nor  drawers. 

Melchior. 

Farewell,  dear  Moritz.  I  don't  know  where  the  man 
is  taking  me.     But  he  is  a  man 

Mobitz. 

Don't  blame  me  for  seeking  to  kill  you,  Melchior. 
It  was  old  attachment.  All  my  life  I  shall  only  be  able 
to  complain  and  lament  that  I  cannot  accompany  you 
once  more. 

The  Masked  Man. 

At  the  end  everyone  has  his  part You  the  consol- 
ing consciousness  of  having  nothing you  an  ener- 
vating doubt  of  everything. — Farewell. 


160  THE    AWAKENIi^G 

Melchioe. 

Farewell,  Moritz.  Take  my  heartfelt  thanks  for  ap- 
pearing before  me  again.  How  many  former  bright 
days  have  we  lived  together  during  the  fourteen  years ! 
I  promise  you,  Moritz,  come  what  may,  whether  during 
the  coming  years  I  become  ten  times  another,  whether 
I  prosper  or  fail,  I  shall  never  forget  you 

Mobitz. 
Thanks,  thanks,  dear  friend. 

Melchior. 
-and  when  at  last  I  am  an  old  man  with  gray 


hair,  then,  perhaps,  you  will  again  stand  closer  to  me 
than  all  those  living  about  me. 

MOEITZ. 

I  thank  you.    Good  luck  to  your  journey,  gentlemen. 
Do  not  delay  any  longer. 

The  Masked  Man. 

Come,    child!      (Hß    lays    his   arm    upon   that    of 
Melchior  and  disappears  with  him  over  the  graves.) 

MOEITZ. 

(Alone.) 
^ow  I  sit  here  with  my  head  und^r  my  arm? -TKe 


OF  SPRING.  161 

moon  covers  her  face,  unveils  herself  again  and  seems 

not  a  hair  the  cleverer. 1  will  go  back  to  my  place, 

right  my  cross,  which  that  madcap  trampled  down  so 
inconsiderately,  and  when  ever3i:hing  is  in  order  I  will 
lie  down  on  my  back  again,  warm  myself  in  the  cor- 
ruption and  smile. 


A  SELECTED  LIST 
IN  BELLES-LETTRES 

PUBLISHED  BY 

NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 

NEW  YO&K 


Hermann  Bahr 

THE  MASTER.  A  drama  in  three  acts.  Adapted  for  the 
American  stage  by  Benjamin  F.  Glazer.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

John  Lloyd  Balderston 

THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  IVIAKNE.  A  play  in  three  scenes  with 
an  introduction  by  George  Moore.    Boards,  $1.20. 

Mitchell  S.  Buck 

EPHEMERA.  Hellenic  prose  poems.  Printed  on  Japan  paper, 
and  bound  in  half-vellum.  Gilt  top.  Edition  limited  to  750 
copies.     $2.25. 

THE  SONGS  OF  PHRYNE.  All  that  is  kno^^^l  of  Phryne's 
life  and  career  is  told  in  these  twenty-nine  songs.  Printed 
on  Alexandra  antique  laid  paper,  with  cover  design  in  four 
colors.     60c. 

BOOK  REPAIR  AND  RESTORATION.  A  manual  of  prac- 
tical suggestions  for  Bibliophiles.  With  17  illustrations. 
Edition  limited  to  1,000  copies.     $2.00. 

Lieut.  James  R.  Crowe 

PAT  CROWE,  AVIATOR.  These  letters  from  France  form 
one  of  the  most  interesting  books  produced  by  the  war. 
They  have  been  collected  and  edited  by  W.  B.  Chase,  the 
well  known  musical  critic.  With  portrait  of  the  author. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

Donald  Evans 

IRONICA.  Mr.  Evans  has  written  these  poems  with  a  new 
dignity  and  a  true  maturity.     Mist  gray  boards,  $1.00. 

SONNETS  FROM  THE  PATAGONIAN.  This  book  opened  the 
Modernists'  war  against  musty  literary  traditions.  Printed 
on  Japan  paper.  Edition  limited  to  750  copies.  Toyogami 
boards,  $1.50. 

TWO  DEATHS  IN  THE  BRONX.  A  series  of  pitiless  pho- 
tographs of  profligate  men  and  women  who  fritter  away  life, 
seeking  new  pleasures,  new  sensations.     Boards,  $1.00. 


NINE  POEMS  FROM  A  VALETUDINARIUM.  The  arch- 
attitudinist  suddenly  becomes  grave  and  simple  and  writes 
in  a  mood  of  supreme  reverence.     Boards,  $1.00. 

DISCORDS.  The  sixty  or  more  poems  that  make  up  the  vol- 
ume oflfer  vivid  glimpses  of  the  stress  and  strain  of  modern 
life.     Boards,  $1.00. 

Paul  Gauguin 

NOA  NOA.  Translated  by  0.  F.  Theis.  The  great  French 
painter's  own  story  of  his  flight  from  civilization  and  his 
life  among  the  natives  of  Tahiti,  in  the  South  Seas.  With 
ten  reproductions  from  paintings  of  Gauguin,  iu  half-tone. 
Boards,  $2.00. 

Alfred  Kreymborg 

BLOOD  OF  THINGS.  A  second  book  of  Free  Forms.  More 
than  a  hundred  new  poems  in  every  mood  and  every  form. 
Greater  in  every  way,  even  broader  in  its  contacts,  deeper  in 
its  emotional  reactions,  richer  in  its  exquisite  artistry,  than 
Mushrooms,  and  therefore  destined  to  be  even  more  popular. 
Boards,  $2.00. 

Arne  Norrevang 

THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  FIDDLER.  A  play  in  three  acts. 
Translated  from  the  Norwegian  by  Mrs.  Herman  Sandby. 
Cloth,  75e. 

Stanislaw  Przybyszewski 

SNOW.  A  play  in  four  acts  by  one  of  the  foremost  writers  of 
modem  Europe.     Boards,  $1.50. 

Pitts  Sanborn 

VIE  DE  BORDEAUX.  A  volume  of  poems  in  English.  In 
free  verse  the  author  has  interpreted  the  soul  of  old  Bor- 
deaux in  the  hour  of  war.     Boards,  $1.00. 

August  Strindberg 

FROKEN  JULIE  (Countess  Julia).  Translated  from  the 
Swedish.    A  naturalistic  tragedy.     Cloth,  75c. 

MOTHERLOVE.  One  of  Strindberg's  most  effective  one-act 
plays.     Second  edition.     Boards,  35c. 

SWAN^WHITE.  A  fairy  drama,  translated  by  Francis  J. 
Ziegler.     Second  edition.     Cloth,  75c. 

THE  ^  CREDITOR.  A  tragic  comedy.  A  searching  psycho- 
logical study  of  the  divorce  question.    Cloth,  75c. 


John  Addington  Symonds 

LAST  AND  FIRST.  The  first  appearance  in  book  form  of 
"  The  New  Spirit "  and  "  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,"  the  latest 
and  the  earliest  essays  of  a  great  critic  and  humanist. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

Grover  Theis 

NUMBERS.  Five  one-act  plays  that  will  be  welcomed  by  the 
lover  of  modem  drama.     Boards,  $1.35. 

Leo  N.  Tolstoi 

THE  LIVING  CORPSE.  Translated  by  Anna  Monossovitch 
Evarts,  from  the  only  authorized  Russian  edition  based  on 
the  MSS.  in  the  possession  of  Countess  A.  L.  Tolstoi.  A 
drama  in  six  acts  and  twelve  tableaux.  Produced  as  "  Re- 
demption "  it  has  been  one  of  the  greatest  successes  on  the 
New  York  stage  in  recent  years.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

Frank  Wedekind 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  SPRING.  A  tragedy  of  childhood 
dealing  with  the  sex  question  in  its  relationship  to  the 
education  of  the  young.     Sixth  edition.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

SUCH  IS  LIFE.  A  satiric  play  with  mediaeval  background 
but  modem  significance.     Second  edition.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

RABBI  EZRA  AND  THE  VICTIM.  Two  impressive  sketches 
full  of  color  and  action.     Boards,  35e. 

THE  GRISLEY  SUITOR.  A  remarkable  study  in  grim  hu- 
mor.   Boards,  35c. 


RETURN  "^y^^'  ^ '  ^^ 


p 


-*. .  « 


Mioaoi;« 


pr^ 


lsL*^i^^7'J^ 


11 


TH£  university  of  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


NTANOS 


